NIA

"No."

"You sure?" He wasn't going to do this if you were.

"I'm not drunk, Jim. I've had three."

He stared at you, thumb rubbing against your throat. "Got a boyfriend?"

"What? No!" Your core ached terribly. Was he stringing this out on purpose? At this rate, one touch and you'd untangle straight away. "Are you-- do you think I'm a slut or something?"

Jim pushed you further into the wall by your throat, his free hand moving to squeeze your waist. He parted his lips against yours again, to which you folded and moaned against them. A string of spit connected you both when he pulled away, still holding you in place. He moved his mouth to your ear, deep breaths fanning your neck.

"Can I tell you somethin'?"

You swallowed thickly, only managing a pathetic excuse of a nod.

"I was thinkin' about you this morning..." He paused to clamp his lips around that sweet spot on your neck, planting a few kisses there before sucking gently. "Strokin' my cock. Thinkin' about what that pussy'a yours tastes like. How those pretty lips would look around me. Can you blame me?" He kissed you again, cock rubbing against you through his pants. "Always wearin' those outfits. To work. You knew what you were doin' to me. You thought about it too, huh?"

"No!"

A grin spread across Jim's face. He knew you were lying. "No?" he groaned into your ear, hand shifting from your neck to your breast. He grazed over your nipple, sending arousal shooting to your core. "Don't lie to me. I'll walk out right now."

"No-- no, don't, I've been trying to-- to get your attention for so long!" The words spilled from your lips in a dirty whine, and you felt your nipples stiffen at the confession. You were a slut, but only for him.

"Should've tried harder. We could've done this a hundred times by now." He wasn't serious-- the tension that had been building was what sometimes got him up in the morning. In more than one way, admittedly. "On the couch. Now. Take off your clothes. I need a cigarette."

You bolted to the couch while he sparked up a cigarette, watching you from the same spot. Your poor limbs worked a frenzy to take off your shirt, wiggle out of that stupidly tight skirt that he liked so much. "Keep your panties on," he instructed, thoroughly enjoying this little show. Ash was tapped onto the floor without a care in the world from either of you.

"Yes, Chief," you breathed, unclasping your bra. It was discarded to one side, and you shifted to sit comfortably on your couch, gently squeezing your breasts together. It worked a treat in enticing him-- you could see his erection straining to get out. How you ached to touch it, to take him any which way he wanted.

Jim made you wait like that until he was finished smoking-- he discarded it in the ashtray you kept on your coffee table and approached you, one hand working to undo his belt. His eyes drooled over every curve of your body, drinking every delicious inch of you in. His gaze settled between your legs. He took pity on you when he saw the wet patch. There was more wet than dry on that fabric, he noticed.

"You're fuckin' gorgeous," he mumbled, breaking his gaze from your core for a second to look you in the eye. You melted under his baby blues until he took himself out and pumped a few times. Under his large hand, he was thick and huge. Your teeth pulled on your lower lip, your pussy clenched around nothing. It drew another whine from deep within, which Jim smiled at.

"Let me see the damage, huh?" He knelt down then, hooking his thumbs around the waistband of your panties, and gently pulled them down your thighs. A string of arousal stretched from your pussy to the fabric. Jim watched it disappear when he pulled your undies over your calves and off completely. He breathed in your scent and it sent him dizzy with desire. "Never seen such a sopping cunt in all my time on this earth."

Without warning, he dove between your legs and drew his tongue from the bottom up, savouring every taste. You screamed. It coated his tongue beautifully. "Holy shit," he groaned, flicking the tip of his tongue against your clit. It drew out another scream, and you clamped a hand over your mouth to muffle it. At this rate, Eddie Munson and his uncle would be able to hear you from their trailer, but Jim's tongue was magic.

He rolled it over your bud again, and your legs trembled something terrible, like he was sending you into convulsions. You could feel his grin against your lips-- it made you want to slap the smugness off of his face.

Thick, strong arms snaked around your thighs to hold you in place. You grasped at the cushions on your couch, each one held in a vice grip like you'd fall a hundred feet if you were to let go. "Jim," you rolled your hips against his face, stomach twisting into knots as he groaned into you. He had been starved from you for far too long. You'd agree that the feeling was mutual, however.

"You gonna do it? Hm? Gonna cum all over my face?" he taunted, lapping at your clit like it was an olympic sport. He pulled away each time he spoke, breath fanning your entrance. "You want to, don't you? Thought about doin' this before, huh? I know you have. You filthy bitch." Something between a chuckle and a moan left his throat as he parted his lips against you again, this time with a vengeance.

"I have-- oh, God, Chief, yes, I have, I've touched myself so many times imagining it!" you sobbed, toes curling. Even you didn't realise how filthy you could be until it was right here in front of you. You were hanging on by a thread, and he knew it. "Shit!"

Hopper grinned against your cunt, still working his aching tongue against you as you clenched around nothing, his arms holding you firmly in place as your legs shook and jerked every which way. "Feel good, sweetheart? Fuck... you're such a messy slut, aren't you? Can't wait for you to take my cock. It's gonna feel so good."

He gently coaxed you through it, pressing soft kisses on and around your pussy until he was certain you'd finished properly. "Mm." He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and stood up, jerking himself a few times-- he was still rock hard. Calloused hands worked to unbutton his shirt and discard it on the floor, and you watched him diligently while you fought to steady your breathing.

Jim's eyes drifted to your dining table. It was small, but looked to be sturdy to him, and he nodded towards it. "Lay on your back. Spread your legs," he ordered, slowly approaching it. He watched you move like a hawk, eyeing every curve of your body. You seemed to move with grace despite how you were screaming his name like a whore just a minute prior. He smirked at the thought and watched you get into position, cock stiffening the moment you spread your legs for him.

"You take birth control?"

"Yeah."

"Good." He had condoms, just in case, but he preferred not to use them. One hand placed itself on your stomach, gentle as can be, and the other guided his cock to your entrance. He coated his head in your arousal, rubbed it against your aching clit, grunted a little at the sensation. "Never seen anybody this wet before, I swear," he observed quietly, pushing into you a little bit. You gasped and he pulled out slightly, then back in a little more. Baby steps. Don't hurt her, Chief.

"That painful?" he breathed, using every little bit of restraint he had not to bottom out.

"No, just take your time."

He did just that-- in a little bit, then out, then a little more, and again. You squeezed around him and he shuddered, one hand reaching around your throat. He squeezed you gently in return, then slowly pushed into you all the way. A long, drawn-out groan left his lips, and he looked at the ceiling with closed eyes. "Fuuuuck..."

A hushed gasp spilled from you at the same time as his groan. You lifted your hips slightly, revelling at how he seemed to fill every inch of you. You were shocked he'd even managed to fit himself in completely.

He began to move his hips quicker, slowly picking up his pace, watching you to gauge your reactions. As soon as a smile tugged at your lips, he grinned, squeezed your throat again and picked up more. Every moan, every gasp, it was fuel for the fire, a sign for him to keep going.

That was when he started to fuck you, really fuck you, until beads of sweat were forming over his forehead, across his broad shoulders, and he was using your throat as leverage to slam into you harder. You wanted to kiss him, he wanted to kiss you, but that would interrupt it and, no, he needed to fuck you as hard as he could.

"That's it, you take it, fuckin' take it, honey, you know this is what I dreamed about for so fuckin' long, yeah? You the Chief's filthy little bitch? Huh?" His voice gradually rose, his fingers dug into the sensitive flesh of your waist, sure to bruise, but you didn't care.

"Yeah!" you cried out, feeling your breasts bounce every time he slammed into you. You brought one shaky hand to try and steady them, quickly switching to pull at your nipples instead, to drag the pleasure out as much as you possibly could. "Don't stop, Jim!" you begged, burning the image of him into your brain.

He laughed, only pounding into you harder, the sound of it music to his ears. "Stop? Why would I do that? You know how long I've waited to do this to you?" he questioned, shifting to place his hands on your thighs. "Far--" He paused and forced them further apart, as far as they'd go without it hurting you so you'd be able to experience every inch of him. Boy, he could use a cigarette. "Far too long." He grinned when your head fell back and lips parted in ecstasy. "That feel as good for you as it does for me?"

You grunted out a moan of approval, trying your hardest to meet his gaze before your head fell back again. You were certain the trailer was shaking, but by this point, you didn't have any fucks left to give. "Keep takin' it. I'm nearly there." He hesitated for a second, then smirked again. "Actually--" Jim slowed himself so he could take your wrist into his hand and bring it to your core. He returned his hand to your thigh and began to hammer into you again. "Play with yourself. Wanna feel you come around me before I finish."

"Mm," you whined, now apparently unable to choke out any words. You just about managed to wind circles into your clit, fingers soaked in arousal and barely grazing his cock. "Oh, my God..." A feather touch, and you were already building up to another climax. Hopper knew it, and he grinned at the thought.

"Keep goin', honey. You know you want to. You came all over my face, now I want you to come around my cock," he coaxed, spitting over your fingers with a shockingly good aim. "Touch that pretty clit for me. That's it. You keep goin'."

You followed his instructions with tenacity, and that was when he stopped talking. Profanities and groans spilled from deep within him. He maintained his rhythm perfectly, occasionally glancing down to watch you play with yourself, then back up to admire your face and breasts. Another gasp spilled from your lips as the knot threatened to snap-- until it did, and you sobbed his name, clenching around him in a frenzy of pleasure. "Hopper-- oh, my God, Hopper, fuuuuck...!"

"Yeah! Yeah, that's it, baby, let go, oh, sweet Jesus!" He grabbed your waist with both hands, fingers digging into your flesh, pounding into your poor cunt with every ounce of strength he had left in him. You felt his seed pump into you, digging deeper every time he slammed his hips against yours.

He slowed himself after a few moments, his chest hair matted with sweat, ran a hand through his hair, then leaned down to meet your lips in an open-mouthed kiss. You moaned against his lips, his stubble grazing your soft skin. "Jim," you breathed, capturing him in another kiss. You wrapped your legs around his torso, his hand rubbing your thigh with surprising tenderness.

Hopper stayed quiet for the most part, humming in approval when you kissed. He pressed a few to the side of your neck, then returned to your lips. He hovered there for a moment. "That was incredible," he breathed, pressing his nose against yours. "Best sex I've had in a very long time." The only sex he'd had in a very long time.

The Hawkins Police Station wasn’t exactly known for its excitement. 

On most days, it was quiet enough to hear the tick of the wall clock and the squeak of Officer Callahan’s chair every time he leaned too far back.

But for you, the silence wasn’t a bad thing as it gave you room to breathe, to sort through case files and tidy up the endless stream of paperwork with your usual meticulous care.

You’d been working at the station for just over six months, and in that time, you’d managed to become something of a fixture behind the front desk. Bright eyes, organised, and hopelessly king. Too kind, according to Chief Jim Hopper.

You bought fresh coffee every morning, laid out pastries on the breakroom table before anyone arrived, and swapped out the vase of flowers on your desk weekly just to keep the place from feeling too grey. You remembered birthdays, wrote thank-you notes in tidy handwriting, and always had a soft smile for even the most irritable walk-ins.

You were the kind of sunshine that warmed everyone around you. And everyone in the office noticed.

“You’re too good for this dump,” Powell had said once, shaking his head as he grabbed a glazed donut from the box you brought in. “You should be working at some fancy law firm or greeting people at a spa.”

But you didn’t want that. You loved your job. Love the small-town rhythm, the creaky floorboards, the scent of strong coffee and old paper. And more than anything, you were drawn to the man at the heart of it all: Chief Jim Hopper.

It didn’t make sense, not really. He was gruff, older, chronically dishevelled, and wore a permanent scowl as if it were stitched into his skin. But somehow, he made your stomach flutter. He made your cheeks burn when he barked out your name or muttered under his breath in that deep, rough voice.

You had a crush. A big one. An all-consuming, ill-advised crush on the Chief of Police– your boss.

“You’re gonna burn out if you keep smiling at everyone like that,” he’d grumble, every other morning when he passed by your desk, coffee in one hand, permanent scowl on his face.

And every time, you’d just grin up at him and say, “Good morning, Chief.”

It had become your thing, teasing him as he pretends not to enjoy it, but you caught the way his mouth twitched sometimes, holding back a smile. Hopper was all sharp edges and shadows, tall and broad and imposing with that worn-out Sheriff’s uniform clinging to his hulking frame, but there was something else under the surface. A heaviness. A quiet sadness he never talked about.

You noticed it even when others didn’t. The way his shoulders dropped the moment he thought no one was looking. The way he lingered in his office long after everyone else had gone home.

And that was why you stayed.

You didn’t tell him that, of course. You just pretended to have too much filing to do. Pretended to be absorbed in some boring county report or half-finished inventory list. But every night, you waited until his heavy footsteps echoed down the hall and out the front door before packing up your things.

It was just after nine when the phones finally stopped ringing. Powell and Callahan had already left, tossing casual goodnights over their shoulders/ The radio in the corner played soft static, and the overhead lights buzzed with that low, flickering hum. You rubbed your eyes, blinking at the glow of the desk lamp as you finished logging the last of the incident reports.

The door to Hopper’s office was still closed.

You bit your lip, glancing toward it. You could go home. No one would blame you, and you were officially meant to finish your shift an hour ago. But something about leaving while he was still here, alone, likely hunched over a bottle and an old case file, just didn’t sit right.

You stood up, walking softly to his door. You knocked gently.

“What?”

The bark made you smile. “Just me, Chief.”

A pause, then the sound of a chair creaking and heavy boots approaching. Jim opened the door with a furrowed brow, eyes narrowing beneath that wild mop of hair, “ Why are you still here?”

You shrugged, offering a sheepish smile, “I had some filing to finish.”

His gaze lowered to your empty hands. “You’re lying.”

You frown at him, “Excuse me?”

“I know you, and You always finish by eight.”

You opened your mouth to argue, but nothing came out. You hadn’t realised he would notice that he paid enough attention to know your habits. Your cheeks warmed under his intense gaze as you absent-mindedly began to wring your fingers together.

He sighed, leaning against the doorframe, one hand raking through his hair and pushing it back. “Why do you stay late?”

You hesitated. “Because you do.”

That shut him up. His jaw tightened, eyes narrowing like he wasn't sure what to do with that. You stood your ground, fiddling with your fingers.

“I just… I don’t like thinking of you here alone, that’s all.”

He looked like he wanted to scold you. Maybe tell you it was none of your business. But instead, he signed again and stepped aside.

“Come in.”

You blinked, not expecting that response. “Really?”

“Might as well. I'm just going through old case files. Not confidential.”

You stepped inside his office for the first time, taking in the cluttered desk, the peeling maps on the wall, and the ashtray filled with crumpled cigarette butts. It smells like smoke, coffee, and something uniquely his– woodsy and warm, like cedar and old leather.

He dropped heavily into his chair with a grunt and gestured for you to sit in the battered chair across from him.

You sat down, smoothing a hand over your skirt nervously. “You live like a raccoon in here.”

He gave you a flat look. “You don't have to stay.”

“I want to.”

That got a reaction. His brows lifted, just slightly.

“You’re too nice,” he grumbled, grabbing a file. “It’ll get you hurt someday.”

You smiled softly. “Not with you around, Sheriff.”

He froze, just for a second. Then cleared his throat and focused hard on the paper in front of him. You didn't say anything else. The quiet stretched between you, not uncomfortable but thick with something else. An awareness that neither of you acknowledged.

You watched the way his sleeves were rolled up, exposing strong forearms. The way his fingers dwarfed the pen in his hand. The tiny twitch of his moustache when he was deep in thought.

“You shouldn't want me like that,” he said without looking up.

You jumped. “Like what?”

“Like you don’t know what it does.”

Your heart skipped. You swallowed, shuffling in the leather chair. “Maybe I do.”

That made him look up. His eyes were tired but sharp, focused entirely on you.

“You shouldn’t”, he said again, but his voice was softer this time, almost like he didn’t believe his own words.

You felt heat rise in your neck. “I should probably head home.”

He stood before you, towering as always. “I’ll walk you out.”

Outside, the air was cold. You shivered, arms wrapped tight around yourself. Without a word, he pulled off his flannel overshirt and draped it over your shoulders. His hands lingered, brushing your arms.

You looked up at him. “Thank you,” he held your gaze for a long moment. His expression was unreadable.

“Get home safe, sweetheart.”

The nickname made your chest ache. “You too, Chief.”

He waited until you got in your car and didn’t move until your headlights disappeared down the road. And still, long after you were gone, he stood outside in the cold, staring into the night, jaw clenched tight like he was holding something back. Something dangerous. Something inevitable.

The morning air in Hawkins had a crisp bite to it, and you hugged your coat tighter around your frame as you stepped into the police station. You were early again. Hopper would grumble about it if he noticed, but you didn’t care. It gave you time to set out the fresh box of doughnuts, refill the coffee pot, and tuck a sprig of sunflowers into the chipped vase on your desk.

“Good morning, sunshine,” Powell greeted, breezing past you with a grin.

You smiled back. “Morning. I brought your favourite today. Raspberry jelly.”

“You’re gonna spoil us rotten,” Callahan muttered as he grabbed a glazed one. “Still don't know how someone like you ended up stuck in this place.”

You laughed lightly, used to the comment. “Guess I have a thing for grumpy men with badges.”

The moment the words left your mouth, your eyes darted to Hopper’s office. The door was closed, but that didn’t mean he hadn’t heard. You busied yourself with rearranging the folders on your desk, cheeks warm and even just thinking about him made your stomach flip.

As if summoned, the door creaked open. Hopper emerged, looking as tired and dishevelled as ever, hair sticking up on one side, uniform shirt unbuttoned at the collar. He grunted something that resembled a greeting and made a beeline for the coffee pot.

“Fresh,” you called softly.

He paused, eyes flicking to yours. “Course it is.”

You offered him a sweet smile. He looked like he wanted to say something, but didn’t. Just filled his mug and disappeared back into his office.

Mid-morning brought chaos. A loud ruckus at the front doors had you jerking your head up. Powell and Callahan rushed forward as two deputies dragged in a handcuffed man, thrashing and shouting.

“Get your hands off me! You think you can lock me up for nothing? Bunch of small-town bastards!”

You stood quickly, hands braced on your desk. The man was wiry and angry, eyes wild and red-rimmed, likely drunk or high, maybe both. Hopper stormed out of his office.

“What the hell is this?” he barked.

“Caught him breaking into Henderson’s garage,” one of the deputies said. “Resisted the whole way.”

The man snarled, thrashing again. “I didn’t do shit!”

It happened fast. The man jerked forward, headbutting the nearest officer. In the chaos, his elbow flew out and struck you. A blinding crack to the side of your face sent you stumbling backwards, crashing into the corner of your desk.

Everything tilted. Your vision swam.

“HEY!”

Hopper’s roar echoed like a gunshot. Chairs scraped. Officers shouted. Powell reached you first, hand on your shoulder, but Hopper was already moving like a freight train. He lunged.

In one fluid, furious motion, he slammed the man against the wall with a snarl. “You just hit her,” he growled, voice low and dangerous. “Big mistake.”

The station froze. No one dared move. No one dared breathe. The man whimpered under Hopper’s grip. The Chief didn’t let go until the deputies peeled him off. 

Still trembling, you had slumped back into your chair, dazed, with your face in your hands. Blood trickled from the corner of your lip. Everyone rushed around you, Callahan barking for an ice pack, Powell fumbling for tissues, but it was Hopper who reached you first. 

He lowered to a crouch, until eye-level with you, his hands reaching forward but then clenched tight with restraint.

“Let me see,” he gently coaxed, but you shook your head, blinking fast.

“I’m fine, just startled. It was an accident.”

“He hit you,” his voice was murderous.

You offered a weak smile, “You should see the other guy.”

He didn’t smile. He reached out, fingers ghosting along your jaw. The gentle contact made you flinch. Hopper flinched, too. Something burned behind his eyes. Anger. Guilt. Something more. And then he stood abruptly, pacing a few steps away, one hand fisting his hair.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered under his breath. “I need a minute.”

Without waiting for a reply, he turned and strode out of the front doors. The others watched him go silent. Callahan eventually broke the tension. “Come on. Let’s get you cleaned up, and I’ll drive you home.”

You stood numbly, shaking your head as much as possible without it throbbing. “No, it’s ok. I just need a moment outside, I’ll be fine.” With a hand pressed to your aching jaw, you slipped outside.

The air was cold, biting. It made your cheeks sting and your eyes water, but you needed the solitude. You stumbled along the path at the edge of the station, disappearing into the trees. There, out of view, you leaned back against the rough bark and let yourself crumble.

Silent tears slipped down your cheeks. Your chest heaved with the emotion you hadn’t let them see inside.

You didn’t hear the footsteps. “You shouldn’t be out in the woods by yourself.”

You startled, turning to see Hopper, towering, jaw still tight. His eyes locked on yours, then immediately dropped to your swollen lip.

You quickly wiped at your face. “But I’m not by myself, and anyway, I just needed a moment.”

He said nothing at first. Just looked at you, really looked. Then he stepped close. Close enough that his chest almost brushed yours. His hand reached out, slow this time, warm and steady as it found your jaw again. He tilted your face toward the light. His thumb brushed your lip, and you winced.

“Damn it,” he grunted.

You saw it then, the way his whole body tensed, as if he wanted to hit something. Or scream. But instead, he exhaled, slow and deep, hand still cradling your cheek.

“I should’ve been faster and should’ve stepped in before it happened.”

“You did what you could,” you whispered. “You always do.”

His brows furrowed. “Doesn’t make it easier,”

There was silence then. The wind rustled the leaves overhead. You leaned further back against the tree, grounding yourself, but Hopper followed your movement, his hand still on your face, his other moving to your waist.

You gasped softly at the contact. His palm was heavy and warm on your hip, thumb grazing slowly over the fabric of your jumper. Your hand came up instinctively, fingers wrapping around his wrist where he cupped your cheek. The tension between you was suffocation.

“You scared me,” he said, voice low. “Thought he–shit, I don’t know what I thought. Just don’t ever do that again.”

“It wasn’t like I meant to,” you breathed. He let out a humourless laugh, his forehead almost brushing yours. His hand on your waist tightened slightly.

“You’re too good for this place,” his eyes dragged over your features. “Too soft. Too…good.”

“I belong where you are,” you said without any rational thought.

He froze. You felt his breath catch, his gaze dropping to your lips. His thumb moved again along your jaw, slow and aching.

“Don’t say things like that,” he rasped. “Not when you don’t know what they mean.”

“I do.” You tightened your grip on his wrist. “I know exactly what they mean.”

Something dark flickered in his eyes. His head dipped, lips just inches from yours. So close you could feel the heat of him, your breath hitched, needing this.

Then, the station door creaked open. Footsteps. Voices calling.

He pulled back sharply, like the moment had never happened. The space between you is filled with cold air.

“Callahan’s gonna drive you home,” he finally said, stepping away. “You rest. Take tomorrow off.”

You nodded, your heart still hammering. He turned, walking away with fists clenched and shoulders rigid. But just before disappearing around the corner, he stopped. And looked back. His eyes held yours. Then he was gone.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You were back at work the next morning, despite Hopper’s orders. Your lip was healing, and the faint discolouration from the bruise along your cheekbone had already begun to fade beneath a dusting of concealer.

You’d smiled when you passed his office, pretending not to see the way his brown furrowed or the way his eyes dropped immediately to your jaw.

“You’re gonna give him an ulcer,” Powell said around a mouthful of muffin.

You blink at him in confusion. “Who?”

Powell gave you a look. “Don’t play innocent. We all saw the way Hopper nearly murdered that guy yesterday. And now here you are with homemade blueberry scones and those little peppermint cream things he likes.”

Callahan leaned over the breakroom table. “He’s like twice your age, you know.”

You rolled your eyes. “He’s not that old.”

Powell smirked. “You keep bringing in his favourite candy and talking to him like he doesn’t make your cheeks glow like a goddamn Christmas tree, you’re gonna get the whole department caught in a sexual harassment seminar.”

You flushed, turning away to rearrange the snack tray. “It’s nothing. He's my boss. We just talk sometimes.”

Callahan gave a low whistle. “Talk. Right. That's what you call it when you two vanish behind the trees for twenty minutes yesterday?”

Your hands stilled on the napkins. “I was upset,” you say offhandedly.

“He was upset,” Powell echoed, but gently now. “Just be careful, alright? We like having you around. You’re good for him. Maybe too good.”

You didn’t reply. I just offered a small, polite smile and returned to my desk. Hopper didn’t emerge from his office until nearly noon, eyes flicking to the new flower arrangement on your desk and the scones on the tray. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to.

You stayed late, again. Of course you did. And this time, it came back to bite you.

By the time you finally gathered your things and stepped outside, the lot was empty, and dusk had settled. You turned the key in the ignition of your car. 

Nothing.

You tried again—nothing but a weak sputter. The battery was dead.

You sighed, resting your forehead on the steering wheel. You didn’t want to call anyone. You didn’t want to explain why you were still there after hours. So you grabbed your coat and bag and started walking.

It wasn’t far. Just a mile and a half. Maybe two. But the wind had picked up, and you hadn’t dressed for the cold. You’d worn a sundress, one of your favourites, a soft yellow one with buttons down the front and a hem that swished around your knees. Pretty and light. Completely impractical now that the sun had dipped.

Your arms were already covered in goosebumps when you heard the familiar rumble of an engine behind you.

A beat-up Bronco pulled alongside. Hopper.

His window rolled down. “What the hell are you doing?”

You glanced at him, sheepishly raising a shoulder. “Walking home.”

“In that dress? In the dark?”

“My car wouldn’t start. It’s fine. I’m almost halfway.”

He swore under his breath and slammed the car into park. “Get in,” you hesitated. “Don’t argue, " he said, already pushing open the passenger door.

You climbed in, shivering. The heat blasted your face immediately, and the door thunked shut behind you. He didn’t speak at first. Just pulled back onto the road, jaw tight, eyes forward. You rubbed your hands together, trying to warm them.

Without a word, Hopper shrugged off his flannel shirt and handed it to you. “Put this on before you freeze to death.”

You slipped it on, grateful. It was huge, swallowing you whole. Warm and worn and smelling like him. The sleeves fell past your fingers. You hugged it close.

“Thank you,” you say softly.

He grunted. You glanced down at your thighs, the dress having ridden up when you slid into the seat. It now rested dangerously high, just above the mid-thigh, where your bare skin brushed against the cold leather. 

You saw his gaze shift. He didn’t speak, but his knuckles tightened around the steering wheel. His eyes flicked from the road to your legs and back again. His jaw flexed. You pressed your legs together, suddenly hyper-aware of everything.

“Sorry,” you said. “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

Hi voice came out gravelly, “You don't make me uncomfortable, sweetheart.” You looked at him. He didn’t look back. “You make me…” he trailed off. Shook his head. “It’s not important.”

You turned more toward him, your knees angled in his direction. The trust was old and narrow. The space between you felt like nothing.

“Tell me,” you whispered.

His eyes flicked to you for just a second. Then they dropped to your bare legs, your hands folded in his flannel. “You’re too young,” he said finally. “Too sweet. Too good. I'm not the man you should be riding home with.”

“Then why do you always make sure I get there safe?

That did it. His jaw clenched. He pulled off to the side of the road and threw the truck in park. You both sat there for a long moment, listening to the engine tick.

“Because I can’t stand the thought of something happening to you,” he admitted. “Because you make me feel things I shouldn’t feel.”

Your heart thudded. “I’m not that innocent,” you whispered.

His eyes finally met yours. “Yes. You are.”

The air in the cab turned thick. Hot. You watched his throat work as he swallowed hard. Then, slowly, he reached across the seat and tucked the flannel tighter around your body. His hand lingered on your arm. Just for a second. Just long enough to burn.

Then he pulled back. “C’mon, let’s get you home,” he said at last, cutting through the stillness. But just before his eyes returned to the road, he gave you a look that you couldn’t quite interpret.

The next morning, you showed up at the station with Hopper’s flannel draped neatly over your arm. A part of you had wanted to hold on to it, but you reluctantly bought it, freshly washed.

As you stepped inside, Powell shot you a smirk. “That dress again? You always break it out when he’s on early shift,” he said, voice full of teasing. “What, couldn’t find one any shorter?”

“It’s not short,” you muttered, cheeks heating.

“Sure it’s not,” Callahan added with a wink. “Still cold out, sunshine. Maybe he oughta just buy you a jacket. Better yet, move you in.”

You rolled your eyes, but your stomach did that traitorous flutter all over again. Hopper hadn’t come in yet, but you could already feel the weight of him in the air, he way he occupied space even when he wasn’t present. It was maddening.

You set his flannel on the edge of his desk and smoothed it flat. A note accompanied it in your tidy handwriting: “Thanks for the rescue. And the warmth.”

He didn’t mention it when he arrived, just nodded once and carried it into his office without a word. But he lingered at your desk just a second longer than necessary. You swore you felt his fingers graze yours when he took the reports from your hand.

The day passed in a haze of tension and glances. Every time he passed behind you, you felt his presence like a shadow, tall and impossible to ignore. When you brought him his afternoon coffee, your fingers brushed again. You both paused, but neither said a word.

Late that evening, the station emptied slowly. Powell waved goodnight. Callahan teased you on his way out, but you were already lost in your paperwork. You hadn’t even realised Hopper was still inside until you heard his door creak open again.

He stood there, arms crossed, eyes soft.

“You working late again?”

“Guess so,” you smiled. “Didn't want to leave before you.”

He exhaled slowly, stepping closer. The room felt warmer when he was near. “You should stop doing that,” he said slowly.

“What?”

“Waiting on me.”

You tilted your head, eyes searching his. “Why?”

“Because I might start expecting it.”

The quiet between you stretched, heavy and charged, until his gaze dropped, first to your lips, then lower. His eyes lingered on the hem of your dress, which had crept up without you noticing.

Jim’s jaw ticked, and his voice came low. “You’re shivering, sweetheart.”

You didn’t get the chance to answer. He was already slipping off his jacket, settling it gently around your shoulders. But his hands didn’t move right away—his fingers stayed, pressing warm against your arms. You drew in a sharp breath, his touch sinking into your skin like heat.

You looked up at him, eyes wide. “Why do you keep doing that?” you asked.

He blinked. “What?”

“Taking care of me.”

His voice was low as he explained, “Because no one else does.”

You stood slowly, his jacket falling around you like armour. “That's not true, everyone here looks out for me.”

“Not the way I do,” he said, closer now. “Not like this.”

You were trembling, but not from the cold. From the heat in his eyes. From everything unsaid.

“Jim,” you whispered.

His hand came up slowly, fingers brushing your cheek, the faintest stroke. “Tell me to stop.”

You didn’t. He stepped closer. “Tell me you don’t want this,” he said again, voice cracking.

Your lips parted.

The office door slammed open. Callahan’s voice called out, too loud and jarring. You jumped back. Hopper swore under his breath, stepping away like he’d been caught red-handed.

Callahan poked his head in. “Oh. You’re both still here. Forgot my damn wallet.”

You busied yourself with your files, pretending your skin wasn’t burning. Hopper cleared his throat, face like stone. “See you tomorrow,” Callahan added, then slipped out.

Neither of you moved. After a long beat, Hopper finally exhaled.

“You should go home,” he said. “Before we do something we can’t take back.”

You didn’t argue. But as you left, his jacket still wrapped around your shoulders, you knew it was already too late. The line had been crossed. It was only a matter of time.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

The rain came fast and had, sliding down in waves as you turned your car onto your street. Windshield wipers struggled against the downpour, and every crack of thunder made you flinch. By the time you pulled into your driveway and stepped out, the wind had already blown your umbrella inside out.

You were soaked within seconds.

Your dress clung to your skin, a sheet of heavy fabric. Your shoes squelched. Cold raindrops trickled down your spine as you fumbled with your keys and rushed inside.

The house was quiet, still. But the silence didn’t last long. With a loud crack, everything went black—power out.

You stood there in the dark, shivering, water dripping from your hair. The air in your home had already turned frigid without the heater.

You stripped out of your wet shoes and peeled off your soaked dress, shivering harder in your thin slip. Every room felt colder than the last. You pulled one of Hopper’s flannels from the laundry basket; you hadn’t returned it this time. You just couldn’t bring yourself to. It felt like safety. Like him.

After lighting all the candles that you owned, you were still rubbing your arms trying to warm up, when the knock came.

You froze.

Another knock. Harder this time. More urgent.

You padded barefoot to the door and opened it to find Hopper on your porch, drenched to the bone. 

“Jesus,” he grunted, looking you over. “You okay? I tried calling. Lines are down.”

You stared at him. “Y-You’ve driven through this?”

“You didn’t answer. I wanted to check on you.”

Your heart fluttered. He stepped inside, kicking the door closed behind him.

“It’s freezing in here, power out?”

You nodded, wrapping your arms around yourself. His eyes trailed down your body, bare legs, soaked through slip, his flannel barely buttoned.

His throat worked visibly. “Jesus, sweetheart.”

“I didn’t have time to change,” you whispered.

He stepped closer, large hands cupping your shoulders. His thumbs rubbed over the fabric of the flannel, the only barrier between your skin and his palms.

“You’re shaking.”

“I’m just cold,” you said, though your voice trembled for other reasons, too.”

His eyes dropped to your lips. Then lower. The shape of your nipples was visible through the thin, soaked fabric. His hands flexed.

“I shouldn’t be here,” he suddenly doubted himself. “You’re half my age, and I'm your damn boss. I just wanted to make sure you were okay, that’s all.”

You stepped forward, your voice soft and innocent, “But you always take care of me.”

“Yeah,” he said gruffly, eyes still averted. “And I shouldn’t. It's not right. You deserve someone your age. Someone who doesn't want to drag you into something you’ll regret.”

You were close enough to touch him now. Slowly and gently, you reach out and place your hand on his chest, feeling the soaked fabric of his shirt and the solid heat beneath it.

“I don’t regret this,” you whispered. “Not any of it.”

He looked down at you then, and you bit your lip, eyes wide and full of want. That was all it took.

“Fuck,” he breathed, and then his hands were on you again, pulling you against him, kissing you like he needed it to breathe.

His lips were rough and desperate against yours, the kiss tasting of tain and restraint finally shattered. His hands slid under the flannel, dragging it down your arms as his mouth devoured yours, his facial hair rough against your soft cheeks. 

“You’re so delicate,” he groaned against your skin. “So fucking sweet.” Next, he removed your shift until you’re nude. You couldn’t help but whimper as you gripped his soaked shirt desperately.

Jim’s body was warm beneath your fingers, and he didn’t waste a moment before sweeping your body into his arms. Once in your bed, he carefully laid you back on your bed and then kissed you with renewed urgency.

You were trembling beneath him, caught between anticipation and need as he hovered above you. His hands, big and rough, traced the length of your thighs, parting them gently.

“You’re so goddamn soft,” he praised, voice thick with emotion. “Too good for me.”

Your fingers clutched his biceps. “I want you, Jim. I want this.”

He groaned like the words pained him, like he was trying to keep himself in check. “I should stop. Shouldn’t be touching you like this.”

You reached up, brushing your lips against his jaw, your voice sweet, almost pleading. “Then don’t stop.”

That broke him. He claimed your mouth again, tongue sliding against yours in a deep, consuming kiss. One hand trailed down your stomach and between your thighs, fingers teasing. 

“You’re so wet,” he rasped. “Fuck, sweetheart. I gotta stretch you first.”

You gasped as one thick finger slid into you slowly, the stretch already burning slightly. He moved carefully, watching your face, kissing your cheeks, your temple, your jaw until a second finger was able to slip beside the first.

“That okay?”

“Y-Yeah,” you whimpered, clutching at him as your hips rolled in time with his movements. “Feels so good.”

“Good girl,” he praised, curling his fingers until your back arched. “You take me so well.”

Your moans turned breathless, needy. When he added a third finger, your thighs trembled around his hand.

“God, you’re so tight,” he growled, biting your lower lip, voice rough with restraint. “You sure you can take me, sweetheart?”

You nod frantically, nails digging into his shoulders. “Please, I want to. I want all of you.”

Jim didn’t need telling twice as he carefully eased his fingers out of you so that he could remove his clothes. You watched his every movement, pussy clenching with need at seeing his body slowly being revealed to you.

“You’re so fucking handsome, Chief,” you say coyly, fingers gripping the sheets below.

With his clothes finally removed, he carefully lowered his body over yours, cradling your head as he kissed you soundly, his hips slotting against yours until you felt the heavy pulse of his cock against your thigh.

He lined himself up, kissing you once, hard and full of need, then pushed inside with a slow, careful thrust that stole your breath. 

Your nails scraped down his back as your legs circled his hip, crying out in desperation. “So big,” you gasped. “Oh my god.”

He grunted, trembling with the effort not to slam into you. “You’re gripping me so fucking right, sweetheart. Jesus.”

He rocked his hips slowly at first, letting you adjust. Every inch of him stretched you open, filled you so deeply it stole your breath with each thrust.

“You okay?” he asked against your ear.

“Y-Yeah. Please don’t stop.”

Once he knew you could take it, the pace changed. He thrust deep and hard, mouth on your neck, your chest, lavishing your breasts with licks, sucking on your nipple until your back arched.

“These tits,” he panted, sucking a nipple between his lips. “So perfect. I could stay here forever.”

You mewled beneath him, body jolting with every thrust. You were soaking, trembling, your noises high-pitched and utterly pathetic.

“I’ve wanted this,” he groaned, biting gently at your collarbone. “So fucking long.”

You came hard, a whimpering, gasping mess under him, and he never let up. He fucked you through the, murmuring praise as you sobbed against his shoulder.

“One more,” he said, voice low and coaxing. “You’ve got one more in you, sweetheart.”

He flipped you over, pulling you into his lap, his cock still deep inside. His big hands gripping your hips and guiding your movements, helping you rock against him.

You were trembling, head thrown back, gasping his name.

“Too much,” you whimpered.

“You can do it,” he rasped, kissing your throat. “You’re doing so good for me.”

You broke with a scream, squirting over his thighs, your body convulsing with overstimulation.

“Fuck, sweetheart,” he growled, eyes dark with awe. “You’re perfect.”

He pulled out at the last second, stroking himself fast and came with a loud groan across your chest, hot ropes streaking your tits as you panted beneath him.

You lay again him, trembling and dazed, lips swollen, chest rising and falling quickly.

His arms wrapped around you, holding you close.

The man chuckles under his breath, shaking his head before he reaches out to grab a box of Swiss Miss, “I prefer the sweeter kind, myself. My daughter does, too.”

You smile softly at him, looking down at his hand and perking up when you don't see a wedding band on his ring finger. 

He’s handsome. Probably about ten years older than you, if you had to guess. A thick mustache adorned his upper lip, stubble lining the rest of his face. He had the sweetest pair of blue eyes you’d ever seen on a man. His shoulders were large, only made more apparent by the bulky brown jacket zipped up over his chest. 

He reaches a hand out for you to take, “I’m Jim.”

You smile, shaking his hand before introducing yourself. 

“Big plans for tonight?” he asks, leaning against the shelves as he eyes over your figure.

“Not really,” you smirk, your grip on your basket tightening as you became more nervous under his gaze. “I’m visiting from out of town. Figured I’d take a small trip to a town I didn’t know for the holidays.”

“You by yourself? On Christmas?” he asks, brow raising.

“Don’t feel bad,” you wave him off. “I don’t have much family back home, so I usually just travel for the holidays.”

“I’m sorry about that,” he smiles sadly, a hand in his pocket. “You’ve chosen one hell of a quiet town for your trip.”

You nod, looking around at the deserted aisle, “I like it that way.”

He bites his lip, grabbing another box of Swiss Miss before tossing it into your basket, “You can’t go wrong with this one - trust me.”

He winks at you, looking at your lips, “Maybe I’ll see you around?”

“Maybe,” you nod your head with a chuckle. 

He tips his hat at you and walks to the front of the store, your eyes following him and admiring the way his jeans clung to his ass just right.

No one ever said the men in Hawkins were so attractive.

-

You always enjoyed a quiet night in for Christmas Eve. Even more so when it was snowing like this.

Ever since your parents passed away ten years ago in a car accident, you didn’t think there was a point in staying home alone for the holidays. You figured you would take the opportunity to travel - see the rest of the country.

Every holiday - New Years, Fourth of July, Thanksgiving, Christmas.

You’d heard about Hawkins only briefly when doing some research on small towns in a magazine - not thinking twice before trading your beach house in South Carolina for a small rustic cabin in the woods in a house exchange.

You’d never imagined that you’d run into a handsome stranger like you did earlier today - that rarely happened now. It’s not like you didn’t appreciate it, though. Being in your early thirties and still being single - you didn’t really expect anything like that to happen anymore. 

But you couldn’t stop thinking about the man you met in the grocery store. Maybe you would run into him again before you left.

You cursed yourself - you should have just given him the phone number of the cabin you were staying in.

You settle in for what’s sure to be a peacefully long night. You don your favorite grey cropped sweater and matching sweatpants, a cup of hot chocolate in your hand as you burrow into the soft couch with a book. The fireplace is roaring, music on the record player at a dull volume - the perfect Christmas Eve.

The logs in the fireplace crackle as you flip through the pages of your favorite book, eyes dancing over the moments where Heathcliff professes his unyielding love for Catherine. Smooth instrumentals of I’ll Be Home for Christmas play throughout the cabin on a record player.

Everything was picture perfect - right up until the moment you were shaken out of your trance by the sound of pounding on the cabin door.

“Who the fuck…” you grunt under your breath, throwing the knit throw that was once comfortably on your lap onto the floor.

Your eyes grow wide when you get a peak out of the window, seeing that the once peaceful snow was now rising to a chaotic blizzard.

You quickly open the door, wincing as the chill hits your face. A tall man wrapped in a coat looks down at you, familiar blue eyes wide and panicked.

“Jim?” you ask, wrapping your arms around yourself. “What - how -”

“Can I come in? My car broke down on the side of the road,” he hurries out, wrapping his arms around himself in an effort to keep warm.

You nod, letting him in and closing the door, “What are you doing here?”

He rubs over his arms, looking around and at you with wide eyes, obviously not realizing whose door he knocked on. His lips part comically, “I swear to god, this is just a crazy coincidence.”

You laugh, walking him over to the fireplace, “You know, this is usually how horror movies start.”

He groans, putting his hands near the flames with a sigh, “Yeah, it looks pretty bad, but I swear-”

You cut him off, chuckling at how panicked he sounds, “It’s okay, Jim. Really.”

His shoulders fall in relief, “Damn truck started teetering out and then the snow started getting worse. This was the first place I could find - I’ve been walking for an hour.”

You grab the blanket you’d tossed on the floor and cover his shoulders, “Just focus on warming up. You’ll be good as new in no time.”

You retreat to the kitchen, pouring more hot cocoa into a mug for him to enjoy. You walk over and hand it to him, “A wise man once said this was the best hot chocolate money could buy.”

He smirks, taking the cup with a nod, “Smart man - sounds pretty handsome, too.”

You roll your eyes in jest, sitting next to him on the lip of the fireplace, “Incredibly handsome.”

His eyes look over you shamelessly as he takes a sip, some whipped cream sticking to his facial hair, “I’m not gonna lie, I’m really happy it was your cabin I stopped at. Regretted not giving you my phone number as soon as I left the store.”

You blush, looking down at your lap, “I was just thinking the same thing.”

He looks around the cozy living room, “I didn’t know they rented cabins like this out to people.”

“They usually don’t,” you grab your own mug of hot chocolate and sip. “It’s more of house exchange?”

He looks at you with squinted eyes before you continue, “The woman that owns this cabin is staying in my beach house in South Carolina.”

He nods his head in understanding, “Well, that sounds interesting.”

“It is,” you chuckle, putting your mug down. “Can I take your jacket? Yours is probably soaked from the snow - you’re not gonna get very warm with it still on.”

He nods, taking his jacket off and handing it to you. Your mouth grows dry, admiring the way the red flannel underneath clings to his muscles, a small tuft of his chest hair peeking out from the collar. He looks absolutely delicious with how the fire illuminates him in a soft glow of amber.

You put the coat over a chair to dry out, looking over at him as he takes his boots off before warming his feet by the fire.

“Do you have anyone you need to call?” you ask, sitting next to him once more. “Your daughter…a girlfriend, maybe?”

He chuckles with a shake of his head, “Jane is staying over at a friend’s house. And if it wasn’t clear by how hard I was flirting with you in Aisle 9, I don’t have a girlfriend.”

You bite your lower lip before teasing, “You call that flirting?”

He lifts his eye brow, “Am I that rusty at it?”

You shake your head with a chuckle, “No, I’m just teasing.”

He growls lowly in his chest, leaning forward with a smile, “You’re a little trouble maker, huh?”

You blush, looking at his lips. Your stomach twists pleasurably before you hum in approval. 

A tense silence falls between you as he continues to warm himself up, occasionally stealing glances at you while you continue to read a few pages of your worn out novel on the couch.

You peer over your book at him, staring at the muscles in his neck. You find yourself wondering what it would be like to bite the tendon there, what his chest would feel like under your hands.

You swallow thickly, returning your attention to the book, but you end up simply staring at the page, not absorbing anything written by Brontë.

Eventually the record starts to skip and Jim takes it upon himself to walk over and flip it around. The music resumes as he walks back, sitting next to you on the sofa.

“How long are you staying for?” he asks, absentmindedly scratching his face while he continues to stare at the fire.

“Only a few days,” you smile, closing the book and swapping it out on the coffee table for your now lukewarm hot chocolate.

“That’s a shame,” he sighs, looking over the curve of your hips. “That’s really not much time to get to know each other.”

You take a deep breath, staring at his neck before motioning to the window behind you, “Well, it looks like we have all night.”

He hums with a nod of his head, “You make a habit of stealing hearts whenever you go on these little trips of yours?”

You chuckle suddenly, covering your mouth and looking down at your lap. You’d never been so brazenly hit on by another person before. You loved the way it made your stomach flip.

“Do you make a habit of making women speechless?” you ask, taking a sip of the beverage in your hand, not realizing that whipped cream stuck to your upper lip.

Jim’s eyes grow soft as he looks at the small mess, “You got a little something -”

His thumb reaches over to smear the whipped cream slowly, your breath hitching in your throat. He makes a show of sucking it off of his thumb with a tiny moan, his eyes never leaving your lips. 

The tension between the two of you snaps suddenly, Jim’s hand grabbing the back of your neck and melding your mouths together.

You sigh into the kiss, hand cradling the side of his face as his lips slot between yours. He tastes like hot chocolate and a bit of cigarette smoke - it makes your head spin.

His free hand travels to your hip, pulling you up and over his lap. You straddle him, kissing him deeply with a whimper. You can’t help it when you start to rock against him, relishing the way he grows harder beneath you.

“God, you’re beautiful,” he whispers against your lips, his hands teasingly travelling up your bare back under your sweater.

You smile against him, pressing a kiss to his cheek, “Flattery’s gonna get you everywhere, Jim.”

He groans, his arms wrapping around your waist possessively as his lips trail down your neck and suck over your collarbone. 

“I don’t - ,” you whimper as you feel his teeth nibble over your neck. “I don’t usually do this with men I just meet.”

He nods his head, looking up at you, “D-Do you want to stop?”

You groan, shaking your head before kissing him again. Your fingers play with the hair at the nape of his neck, your tongue licking over his lower lip before he opens his mouth. Your tongues glide against one another, causing you to gasp into his mouth at the feeling of him.

His hands grab fistfulls of your ass before gently laying you down onto the couch, hovering over you and continuing to kiss you. You wrap your legs around him tightly, rubbing yourself up against him where he’s straining in his jeans.

“Your jeans,” you sigh against him. “You should - you should take them off. They’re wet from the snow, too, y’know.”

He nods quickly, unzipping his pants and pulling them down his legs in a huff. You chuckle, pushing him backwards so that you’re on top of him again, settling between his legs as he melts into the cushions. You kiss down his chest, unfastening each button of his flannel as you travel further south, your hand splaying over his supple stomach and rubbing over the hair that splatters his skin.

“You look so goddamn good,” you smile against his stomach, your hand travelling lower to tease the waistband of his briefs, licking over his lower stomach.

“Fuck,” he curses, tossing his head back onto the arm of the couch. One forearm covers his forehead as the other reaches down to play with your hair.

Your mouth waters at the sight - it had been so long since you’d been with a man like this. Despite the fact that Jim was practically a stranger, it felt like you’d known him for so much longer.

You kiss lower as you pull his briefs down his thick thighs, his cock heavy when it plops onto his lower stomach.

“Jesus,” you curse with a laugh, holding him in your hand. “So fucking big. I can’t even wrap my hand around you.”

Jim moans, his hips bucking upwards as you pump him lightly in your hand. You look down and admire how red and swollen his cock is - definitely the biggest you’ve ever touched. Without hesitating, you lean forward to lick him from base to tip, humming at the salty taste of his skin on your tongue.

The man growls deeply above you, the grip on your hair tightening before you swirl your tongue around the head of his cock, which was already dripping from the attention you were giving him.

You wrap your lips around him, sinking down on him as much as you can without choking. Your hand works around the section of his shaft you can’t fit into your mouth.

“Oh my god,” he groans, his other hand reaching down so he was cradling your face. “Feels s’fuckin’ good, shit.”

You rub your thighs together, wetness undoubtedly coating the seat of your underwear. You quickly become obsessed with the weight of him on your tongue. The drag of your lips around him becomes sloppier, spit pooling at the base of his cock.

“M’gonna come, please,” he begs, his hips thrusting towards your face and fucking your mouth.

You whimper in encouragement, your free hand cupping his sack gently before squeezing. With that, the man groans loudly as his cum paints the back of your throat. You swallow him greedily, continuing to suck him until he grows overstimulated and gently pulls you off of him.

“Jesus,” he says in astonishment, his thumb rubbing over your bottom lip, smearing the cum there. “God, get on your fuckin’ back - please.”

You do so without a second thought, lying on your back and spreading your legs for him to lie in between. He quickly removes your sweatpants and throws them on the floor while you remove your sweatshirt, your nipples taught and hard as you continue to grow wetter under his intense gaze.

He leans forward and sucks your nipple into his mouth, one hand groping the other breast while the other starts to rub over your soaked pussy lips,

“Fuck,” he grunts, biting your nipple. “Wettest fucking pussy I’ve ever touched.”

You mewl, arching your back as you focus on the feeling of his thick fingers rubbing up and down your cunt. Every time he brushes your clit, you feel yourself gush, wetting the cushions beneath you.

He presses kisses down your stomach as he starts to roughly circle your clit with practiced fingers. He looks up at you, his pupils blown wide as he kisses over your mound.

“Please, god, put your mouth on me,” you beg, threading your fingers through his hair and pulling, eliciting a groan from him.

He nods his head, the fingers rubbing over your clit immediately dipping into your opening and pumping into you. His tongue licks over you slowly and you scream, your legs widening instinctually and your hand pulling his face towards your pussy.

“Tastes so fuckin’ sweet,” he murmurs against your clit, the vibrations of his voice causing your knees to shake.

The sound of his fingers fucking you gently are absolutely filthy, and you feel yourself climbing that peak higher with each drag of his digits against your walls.

He curves his fingers, brushing over that spot that has you seeing stars. He sucks your clit into his mouth, his tongue rubbing simultaneously over the sensitive skin of your bud and making you feel dizzy.

You feel that balloon within you expanding until it suddenly pops, making you scream as you start to come all over his hand. You whimper as he growls against you, fingers moving at a quicker pace while you squirt over his neck and chest. He releases his mouth on you so he can watch you make a mess, his lips parted in awe as a puddle gathers underneath you.

“Fuckin knew you were a dirty girl the minute I laid eyes on you,” he grunts, licking over your pussy. “So fuckin hot, coming all over me like that - shit.”

Your eyes brim with tears, that heightened feeling of pleasure still lingering between your thighs. He sucks over your clit again, this time harsher, with his fingers working against your sweet spot harder and quicker, “Think you can come again? Just like that? All wet and filthy, squirtin’ over me like a goddamn sprinkler?”

You nod helplessly, feeling that pressure beginning to build again in your lower stomach as he refuses to relent.

“Fuck!” you scream, your legs shaking violently as you squirt uncontrollably, his free hand rubbing erratically over your clit and making your juices go everywhere.

“Oh god,” he moans, eyes trained on your center. “Yeah, come on. Keep going.”

You push through it, your second orgasm feeling more intense than the first. The heat runs down your legs to the tips of your toes and you see white behind your eyes lids, feeling the flood of cum coming from your throbbing cunt.

You’d never let yourself let go like this before, and it was absolutely the sexiest you’ve ever felt.

He sucks you through it, petting your thigh as you come down.

“Oh my god,” you whimper, grabbing his face and pulling him over you.

The man kisses you roughly, groaning when you don’t hesitate to lick into his mouth, desperately seeking the taste of your cum on his tongue.

“You’re so fuckin sexy,” he murmurs against you. “God, you make me harder than a fuckin’ rock.”

You wrap your hand around his throat lightly, just enough to grab his attention while you whisper in his ear, “You gonna fuck me?”

His eyes are half-lidded in deep pleasure as he nods, “Please.”

You kiss down his neck, finally sucking on that spot you couldn’t look away from earlier. The man whimpers, taking hold of his cock and guiding it to your dripping entrance.

You both moan as he slides into you, easy with how wet you were. His moans fill your ears as he thrust harder into you. He grips your thighs and tosses them over his shoulders, leaning down so that they’re pressed against your chest. You yelp, the feeling of his cock bruising your cervix is enough to make those tears start building up in your eyes again. His arms cage you in and you grip onto his biceps for dear life.

“You’re so big,” you cry, feeling like he was going to split you in half. “God, don’t fucking stop.”

“So fuckin’ tight,” he grits out, his hips slamming against your ass.

The sounds of his skin clapping yours, the wet sounds of his cock abusing your cunt - it’s all too much. You toss your head back as you feel that familiar heat start to bloom in your stomach again.

“Fuck, I’m coming,” you whimper helplessly.

The man whines, leaning down to kiss your neck as he continues his thrusts. You scream, clenching down on his cock and spurting over him weakly. Your ears start to ring as his thrusts become more sloppy, more erratic.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he chants, pulling out of you suddenly and pumping himself as thick white ropes paint your lower stomach.

The both of you breathe heavily, attempting to catch your breath as you just melt into one another. You kiss his temple, petting the hair at the nape of his neck as your breathing evens out.

“Oh my god,” he breathes out, kissing down your cheek until his lips seal over yours.

Your lips slot against once another, savoring the taste of each other until he breaks away, “That was - Jesus, that was hot.”

You smile, covering your face as your cheeks flush at his praise, “Yeah…yeah it was.”

He takes your hands away, pressing kisses to each palm, “Don’t get all shy on me now.”

You groan, biting your lip as you look up at him, “Sorry, I just - I’ve never come like that so many times before.”

“Don’t fuckin’ apologize for that,” he shakes his head, cupping your face and pressing a gentle kiss to your cheek. “That was the hottest fucking thing I’ve ever seen.”

You smile, his lips brushing your ear as he whispers, “I can’t wait to see it again and again and again.”

You moan gently, gripping his shoulders as he looks back in your eyes, “I’m gonna make you squirt all over this fuckin’ cabin. Mark my words, little girl.”

Hawkins, Indiana might actually be the best holiday destination.

⟢ to be added to my taglist, shoot me a message here.

“Y/N,” she announces; the majority of the plane looking up at the intrusion of their quiet to look at her. The only sign you’ve heard her, though, it the way your brows raise imperceptibly where they remain pointing down at your magazine, “fuck, marry, kill: Reid, Morgan, Hotch.” 

Morgan whistles and JJ snickers, but Hotch looks up with a very pointed frown. “Prentiss; unprofessional.”

“Duly noted, sir.” She agrees readily before turning back towards you. “Y/N? What say you?” 

You smirk as you finally look up at Emily. 

“Em, what is it about me that strikes you as the type of girl who would ever have to choose?” You respond salaciously, earning more cheers and jeers from the group as your father audibly rolls his eyes. 

“Nepo baby gets what nepo baby wants.” Morgan purrs, though he’s smiling at you in the way Emily knows translates to this is all in good fun. 

You seem to read it for what it is, too. “Damn straight.” 

“Who raised you?” Rossi sighs; the question meant to be rhetorical. 

“You did.” Reid responds helpfully. “Though I suppose if we take into account the common saying that it takes a village to raise a child, I suppose it would be more accurate to state that the two most stable figures in Y/N’s life were you and Gideon. Basically, she was raised by the BAU.” 

“So that’s what’s wrong with me.” You muse. 

“So you really won’t choose?” JJ presses, headphones officially folded up in her lap as she dedicates herself completely to the conversation. 

“Why would I?” 

“To retain your job, perhaps.” Hotch sighs under his breath, though loud enough for everyone to hear it. 

“You can’t fire me.” You tease Hotch. “I have seniority here.” 

“Pretty girl, having been ushered from precinct to precinct from the age of six months old doesn’t give you seniority.” Morgan admonishes.

You and Rossi both furrow your brows at him as you respond in tandem. “Yes it does.” 

“Y/N, you cannot have three husbands, you have to choose one.” Rossi instructs. 

“Why? You had three wives.” You counter.

“Not at the same time, bella.” 

“Hey, the girl knows what she wants; I respect that.” Morgan defends you, earning him an appreciative smile from you and a derisive scoff from your father.

“You must get that from your mother.”

“Actually, recent studies have suggested that children – daughters, in particular – are more likely to imitate the dating patterns of their fathers. While they don't inherit their fathers' dating habits in a literal, genetic sense, by observing their fathers' behavior in relationships, daughters learn about the dynamics of love, commitment, and expectations in relationships.” Reid rattles off, smiling contentedly to himself before he looks up to notice the team staring at him. 

“Great,” you sigh sardonically, “so I can expect multiple failed marriages in my future.” 

Reid bounces his head back and forth in a so-so fashion. “Well if you plan on marrying me, Hotch, and Morgan, the chances of at least two of those marriages failing is quite high.” 

You lean forward almost predatorily as you smile at the doctor. 

“Oh? And any thoughts on which of those marriages might fail, Doctor Reid?”

But Reid hardly opens his mouth to respond before Rossi is sitting up straighter in his chair. “No, no. No.” 

“Dibs on being husband number three.” Derek proclaims. 

“Marry any of them and I’ll get uncle Jason involved.” Rossi threatens, though it seems to have the opposite effect on you. 

“Please; who do you think is walking Hotch down the aisle?” 

Hotch, for his part, turns to you with his signature scowl somehow impossibly deeper. You beam at him in response. 

“So, Rossi, how many weddings should we expect from Rossi Junior here if she’s gonna take after her old man?” Emily goads, turning the attention back to him.

“What are you at now, dad? Seven?” You add, faux innocence painting your features as you bat your lashes at him. 

“I’ve only been married three times and you know that.”

“Only.” You scoff with a roll of your eyes. 

“Are you happy now, Prentiss?” Hotch deadpans as he levels Emily with an unimpressed glare.

“Very, sir.” Emily agrees, leaning back in her chair and enjoying the sight of you and your father rapidly switching between English and Italian as the two of you volley insults and arguments alike.

It’s a sentence that returns and returns to you. It’s a truth you hold in your hands, or wear on your shoulders like a mantle you can’t take off. You have heard it, in one form or another, from the lips of lover to lover. They whispered it to you in the heat of sex, like a special confession only for you, and then vanished like a vapor. 

Your body is like a hotel, you think—a pretty room that people pass through and love only in the moment. When was the last time you were held without the other person’s hands hungrily seeking your breasts? When was the last time you were kissed without their hands roaming your body like an impatient, starved animal? 

Once, you had worked up the courage to confront them. You told them, “hands off.” You don’t exactly remember how the conversation went. But you know that it ended in them laughing in your face, suggesting you work at Babette’s if you wanted compensation for your body. 

When they were gone, you stood in the silent room and wondered if they were right. You wondered if it was your fault. If your body was the only good thing, the only worthy thing about you. If you were nothing more than a pretty face and a blank canvas waiting to be ruined. If you were asking too much when you asked for even just a shadow of respect. 

You stopped speaking after that. 

~~~

Shortly after you began to work for Silco as his record scribe, you met his henchwoman, Sevika. Immediately you knew she was different. She didn’t look at you the way others did—in fact, she barely looked at you at all. When she spoke to you she looked down at you over her hooked nose, her handsome, perfect nose, in a way that made you feel both insignificant and the only woman in the entire world. She didn’t give you flattery about your appearance, spoke bluntly when you made mistakes. 

Still you caught her staring at you from time to time when she thought you were too immersed in work to notice. But her face betrayed nothing. Her brows were always drawn together as if everything in the world annoyed her. You assumed she was only scrutinizing the way you worked. You wondered if Silco had ordered her to monitor you, assess your performance. You worked harder as a result, feeling oddly gratified to be watched for a reason other than your appearance. 

So one could imagine your shock when Sevika strode up to your desk one morning and said, “get your coat. Walk with me.” 

From that day on, you were hers. 

~~~

The first night you moved into her apartment had been a hard day at work. You had been at the desk all day without a single break, trying frantically to keep up with the endless flow of Shimmer shipment records and orders. Sevika had been on her feet from dawn to dusk—you hadn’t seen her for two consecutive minutes even though you worked in the same building. 

The night had deepened, the sky outside dusted with faint stars. You were undressing for bed. If you were tired, how exhausted must Sevika be? You paused in front of the mirror before you slipped the nightshirt over your body. Maybe she would want to let off some steam. Maybe she expected it from you. Hesitantly, you put the nightshirt on. You didn’t want to, but you felt like you owed it to her. Like she deserved it.

Sevika came in, her mechanical arm detached and water glistening on her face from a quick wash. She smiled slightly when she saw you waiting on the bed. “There’s my girl. C’mere.”

She sank into the bed you now shared with her, and obediently you crawled over and folded yourself into her embrace. Her right arm curled around you protectively. Her warmth, her strength, the tautness of her muscles against your skin. It was heavenly. 

She sighed into your neck, and it made you shiver slightly. The question tiptoed to the end of your tongue: can we…can we maybe just stay like this? 

But you feared she would say no. You feared she would be mad. And leave you. 

You waited for her to make the next move, to start pulling the shirt over your head, or turn you around so she could grope between your legs. When several seconds passed and she did nothing, you realized that maybe she was waiting for you. 

Reluctantly, you pulled yourself away and began to take off your shirt. 

Sevika sat up, confused. “What are you doing?”

You freeze in your movements. Your shirt falls back down over your chest. “I—you don’t want to…?”

She shook her head, lips curling in a bemused smile. “Baby, relax. I’ve been here fifteen seconds.”

Slowly, you returned to her, and she pulled you close once more. Sevika felt the shudder of relief that went through your body. Though you didn’t see it, her face creased with concern. She had noticed the apprehension in your eyes, nearly bordering on fear. And she made a mental note to herself to find whatever fucker had hurt you and made you so scared. 

You brush off some dust from the couch and fluff some cushions. The sound of trickling water from the little fountain you have in your area is a comforting source of noise, accompanied by the faint music playing in the background of Babette’s brothel. There. Now, everything is tidy, clean, and pretty. Just how you like it.

You take a quick glance at yourself in the mirror, fixing a few of your hairs and re-adjusting the mask sitting on your face to protect your identity while you work. It’s the image of a cardinal, sloping lines with a small, golden beak at the tip of your nose with red accents. It fits quite well with your general aesthetic— today, you chose to wear a sheer slip made of tulle over your shoulders and down your body like a dress. It was comfortable, and it highlighted your best assets.

“Busy?”

Oh, you just love the sound of that voice.

“For you?” You say, turning to see none other than Sevika herself standing in the doorway to your enclosed room. You smile. “Never. Come in, sweetheart.”

Sevika steps in, her footsteps heavy with power and tension. You flip the sign outside of your room to the other side to indicate that you’re currently preoccupied, before pulling the silk curtain shut. Sevika, to your delight, has already made herself comfortable on your blue velvet couch. The cape secured over her left arm covers the limb, but her right is spread out on the back of the couch.

“Long day?” You ask, walking toward her with a little sultry intent in your step. Sevika takes you in appraisingly, the corners of her mouth turning up just a fraction. You have her interest, and now you intend to keep it.

“Something like that. Silco’s daughter keeps pissing me off, doing things wrong,” Sevika grumbles. She reaches into a pocket, pulling out a smoke. She puts it in between her lips, then produces the lighter.

Before she can even think to light it, you pluck the object out of her hand, putting your knee on the couch so you can throw your other leg over hers. As you situate yourself on her lap, flipping the lighter open and igniting the flame, you say, “A good thing you came to me, then. Let me help you get rid of all those worries, hm?”

“You always know what to say, don’t you, Cardinal?” Sevika murmurs, watching you light her smoke for her. The embers catch and Sevika pulls the first inhale. You set aside the lighter, moving your hands to rest on her shoulders. You brush aside a strand of her hair, tucking it behind her ear. She exhales the fumes of her smoke from the corner of her lips, sending it sideways.

“What can I say? It’s a talent of mine,” you reply, remarkably aware that all that separates the apex of your thighs and her muscular leg is the thin underwear you have on. All she would have to do is shift her leg upward and you’d be melting. You don’t doubt that Sevika knows this.

“Hm? How many of these talents do you have?” Sevika asks.

“A few.” You tilt your head to the side, taking the smoke from her hand to have a pull. It’s pleasant on the back of your throat; Sevika spares no expenses for the good kind of smokes that make your head feel fuzzy and warm. When you open your mouth to let the fumes seep out, you extend your tongue before curling it to your top lip.

“Are you going to put them to use?” Sevika drawls, the darkness of her eyes only turning blacker the longer she watches you. You lean closer to her. Your arm skims the front of her muscular torso, but you divert to the side in order to slip your fingers under the red fabric of her cape. The metal of her prosthetic arm is chilled, cool to the touch.

“Let’s say I’ve been thinking about the more… practical applications of your arm,” you whisper.

Sevika’s eyebrow raises very slowly. From the shadows, her mechanical arm moves. You see the glint of a knife for only a fraction of a second before you feel the golden rope keeping your shawl together being sliced off. Sevika retracts the knife back into her arm as the rope hits the floor.

A shame. You liked that one. But you like the look on Sevika’s face even more.

There’s a reason she’s a regular here at the brothel. She’s your regular. You can’t count how many times she’s seen you after hours when your shift is done but you let her in because she likes you.

You inhale from the smoke one last time, putting it aside on an ashtray before cupping Sevika’s face in your hands and bringing your lips to hers. When they touch, she opens her mouth, allowing you to exhale the smoke into her throat. The sting of liquor is obvious on her tongue, combined with the underlying, ashy taste of the cigarette. You wrap your arms around her neck completely, rocking your body into her lap in an attempt to get closer.

She appreciates it, making it known by the way she grumbles into your mouth, her real hand moving around to your back underneath the tulle. Her nails are blunt and short and the pads of her fingers press into the dimples of your spine.

“Interested to see what my metal fingers can do, hm?” Sevika mutters into your lips. When you don’t reply right away, she pinches your ass. “Answer.”

“Fuck, yes, please, I know you’ve got a trick up your sleeve,” you whisper back, a throaty moan slipping from your lips when she squeezes the flesh of your rear.

“Then show me you deserve it,” she demands.

Without a second of hesitation, you draw away from her lap and get onto your knees. You make quick work of her belt and her pants while still holding a sensual, even gaze with her. She likes the eye contact, you know this very well because of the way she looks at you when her fingers are buried deep in your—

Focus.

You guide her pants off her hips, trailing the line of her abs down to the apex of her thighs hungrily. Sevika isn’t one for penetration, so you do what she likes best— direct stimulation.

Your tongue is your best weapon in this fight and your intimate knowledge of this giant woman lends well in this very moment. You put one of her ridiculously muscular thighs onto your shoulder to give yourself a better angle and the sounds she makes are simply delightful. Your clothes don’t do you any favors of concealing your arousal; your thighs turn stickier and sticker with every second that passes. Sevika is a wonder to behold. She grips the couch cushion so tightly that you fear it might be ripped to shreds.

Her real fingers smooth over your hair— her palm is wide enough to hold your head entirely and you moan into her, the vibrations making her grunt with barely restrained pleasure. She pushes your head further into her and fuck, who are you to say no?

It’s a little awkward, what with the mask, but you make it work. Her taste is addicting and you stop at nothing until she unravels with a silent groan, her head rolling back onto the couch and her leg going weak on your shoulder. You rest your head on her thigh, giving her a moment to breathe.

“Fuck,” Sevika whispers. She looks down at you, blinking back into focus. “C’mere. On my lap.”

Again, who are you to say no?

With shaky legs, you climb into her lap. She unclips her cape and throws it to the side, her tank top sparing no expense in hiding the gruesome conjoining of metal and skin. You’re fond of it. You’re fond of Sevika, but that is something you’ll never say.

“Let’s see here,” Sevika murmurs, her metal hand sliding up your thighs and to your groin. At the first touch, you gasp; she’s freezing, but it’s a relief that you sink into instantly, burying your head into her neck as she laughs. “So desperate after making me feel good, aren’t you? Good girl.”

“Please.” You’re not sure how much more of this you can take.

“Careful, I don’t wanna hurt your pretty little cunt,” Sevika whispers, easing one of those metallic fingers inside. “God, you’re so wet, I don’t even need you to lick my fingers.”

The most desperate whine comes from your throat.

“You want more already?” Sevika scoffs. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

When the second slides in, you’re completely unprepared for it. You grab onto her arm with your hand, your nails digging in, but she barely flinches. Gently, she starts thrusting, prompting you to rock your hips back and forth until you find that angle where— fuck, it hits you just right and now you’re a mess in her hands.

“Look at you, all nice and pretty for me,” Sevika continues and god fucking damn it, you hate her so much because she makes you feel this way so easily. “Taking me so well, I think you could take a third, couldn’t you?”

“Hmrpgh.” That wasn’t even intelligible. Fuck.

“I’ll take that as a yes, but,” Sevika chuckles lowly, her lips right next to the shell of your ear. “I don’t need a third to make them better.”

There’s a click and your insides light on fire as the two fingers somehow lengthen and widen at the same damn time. You practically scream out a moan, your hips stuttering and stilling to accommodate the stretch she provides. Her real hand comes to your throat and you find yourself being jerked back off her lap and onto the couch. She spreads you out like a goddamn duvet and presses her hand around your throat, just enough to make your head feel light before withdrawing.

The way her eyes are so focused on you is addicting. You want nothing more for this to be how you end every night. Every day, you give other people pleasure. But Sevika…

Oh, Sevika knows how to turn you inside out and you love every second of it. No one does it the way she does.

“Come on, you’re close, aren’t you? Are you gonna come for me?” Sevika says softly, her prosthetic hand working you like a fiddle. You can barely say anything between the waves of pleasure that start rolling through your body in preparation for the fucking tsunami that’ll come crashing in soon. You can feel it, rising up from every pore of your body in shivers and shakes. Sevika presses her lips to yours, her tongue sliding in to touch yours in a way that makes you turn into a puddle of skin and pleasure.

Your arousal is leaking onto the couch in a steady stream and holy fuck, you’re right there.

“Ask.”

Fuck.

“Please, let me come, please, I need it, please—”

The corner of Sevika’s lip turns up. Her fingers go wider, just enough to border on pain. “Come for me.”

You finally let go, your moan muffled into her lips as liquid spills from your groin into her metal hand. Sevika watches you crumble into nothing, pliant in her hands. Hell, you love this. You love Sevika getting you off like nobody else does.

She eases her hand out of you.

“Easy now,” she says as you try to sit up on your elbows. Instinctively, you open your mouth. Sevika grins, sliding her fingers in for you to clean up. The taste of metal mixed with your arousal is something you’ll never forget, combined with the feeling of Sevika massaging your shaking thigh with the heel of her palm and her strong fingers.

When she finally withdraws her fingers, you let out a pleased sigh. “Thank you, sweetheart.”

“Anything for my good girl,” Sevika replies. She stands up, retrieving her cape and securing it over her arm. She leans down to place a kiss (tender and soft on your skin), her palm on your face. You grab her wrist before she can leave.

“Stay?” You ask quietly. “Just this once.”

Sevika considers you for a moment, the lines between her brows prominent with thought. Then, she nods and immediately scoops you up into her arms, walking to the chaise lounge you have in your room and laying down. You rest on her chest and she preserves what little of your modesty you have left by covering your rear with her cape.

“Rest, Cardinal,” Sevika murmurs. “I’ll cut out the throat of anyone who tries to interrupt.”

That brings a smile to your face as the hazy aftershocks of your orgasm lull you to sleep.

~~~~~

The toolbox lands on the table with a loud thump, causing the light above to flicker out for a fraction of a second.

Sevika’s eyes move up before her head does to take you in, regarding you with a scowl on her face. She takes the smoke from her mouth, blowing out grey-brown plumes into the air through the corner of her mouth. Her eyes flick to the other side of the table, and she makes a mere gesture at her two playing partners.

You pull up a stool and sit down, opening the lid to the toolbox as the other individuals scatter like the wind. Sevika sweeps all of the cards on the table into a single pile, straightening out the deck until each side is meticulously sharp and clean. From within the box, you pull out a collection of small, fine tools made specifically for an occasion like this.

You meet Sevika’s hard gaze and say, “You look like shit.”

“Aren’t you just being a sweetheart today?” Sevika replies. You reach over to move her ridiculous one-shouldered cape, but she smacks away your hand to do it herself. “It’s fine, I’ve been doing the necessary repairs.”

“Right, but I’ll hazard a guess that you haven’t cleaned out any of the moving parts since the last time I checked up on you, so they’re probably full of gunk,” you say, picking up a screwdriver and holding out your other hand. Sevika rolls her eyes and extends her arm. You grab the hand and press your fingers into the plates in order for them to activate and reveal the heavy screws keeping the hand connected to the forearm.

For years, you’ve been serving as Zaun’s resident expert on mechanical limbs. Limbs of any type, whether it be arms, legs, hands, fingers, or even more… sensitive regions require a type of repair with delicacy only you’ve mastered. It’s brought you plenty of wealth and protection from the unsavory types, especially those with body modifications that rely on maintenance.

One such unsavory type is Sevika, Silco’s right-hand man.

You’ve learned how to handle her. The first time you met, you believed she was going to put your head through the wall. Now? You barely flinch any time she says a crude insult meant to wound you. Doesn’t faze you at all.

You remove the hand joint. Sevika makes a noise, laying the rest of her arm on the table and giving you better access to disconnect all of the parts and organize them.

Sevika watches you the entire time. Not her arm. You. This, you’re keenly aware of, her heavy gaze on your side profile as you clean out the pipes that allow the shimmer canisters to flow properly. Gunk is a serious problem to have if it builds over time, so Silco has you come around every two months to clear out Sevika’s mechanical limb. Optimum efficiency is the baseline standard for Silco. You agree.

Her eyes are… a mash between analytical and something else. You would like to know what the other part is, but that would be letting her know that you’re aware of her looking. You’re not about to give her that satisfaction— she’d be smug about it until next week, and you already see her enough at the Last Drop brooding in the corner to last a lifetime.

“Keep staring at me like that and I’ll put the arm back together and smack you with it,” you comment not so lightly, wiping a rag over some plates that had accumulated far too much dirt. Sevika had completed the daily repairs and tweaks necessary to keep it functioning, but the grime never seemed to bother her unless it got in the way.

“Can you even lift it?” Sevika says. Her finger taps a pattern on the wooden table, a rhythmic movement that creates a nice, subtle noise in the background.

“It’s a lot lighter now that I’ve emptied the shimmer pipes,” you say, turning the forearm section over. You press down on a plate to expose the inner wires and circuitry that allows the arm to operate so you check everything. Internal processes are looking fine, nothing is out of place or out of the ordinary; for as much as you gripe about having to deal with Sevika often, her arm is one of the finest pieces of mechanical prosthetics you’ve seen, not including your own.

“Huh. Never woulda taken you to be someone so smart at this kinda shit,” Sevika drawls, pinching her smoke between her fingers to take another inhale of it. You watch the smoke plumes flow from her nose— you catch a whiff of it. Expensive. Sevika clearly likes the uppity brands over the rest. It’s a scent you recognize only because it was the same kind that your father used to smoke.

“And what is that supposed to mean, Grumpy?” you say. You take the heaviest shoulder joint of the arm into your hands. You eject the shimmer chamber and check for rust or gunk build-up inside of it. “You think I ain’t qualified for this?”

“Don’t know. Silco never mentioned a damn thing about you before the first time,” Sevika replies. “I think you’re plenty qualified, in fact.”

Your hands pause for a fraction of a second then you simply resume your work, doing the last rounds before putting the shoulder back into the anchor. Sevika grunts, making a restrained noise with the limb locking into place. You attach the upper arm joint, the elbow, the forearm, and then you slide the hand back into place. After tightening the screws, you step back and retrieve a shimmer canister from the toolbox and place it into the chamber.

It locks and pushes down. You witness the veins in Sevika’s shoulder up to her neck and face glow with a pulse of shimmer going through her bloodstream, the injection sending the mechanical arm to life. The fingers flex and respond to her movement, and Sevika exhales, curling her hand into a fist. You won’t admit how hot it is to see her gain subtle confidence back with the mechanical arm.

“The grip on the fingers is wearing out,” you comment. “I’ll come back in a week to fix it.”

“I promise you, the fingers will feel good regardless,” Sevika says. It takes a second for you to realize what the fuck she means by that, but when you do, you feel the hairs on the back of your head stand on end. You raise your brow at Sevika. She does the same thing. The bench she’s sitting on slides back as she rises to her full height.

Several inches taller than you.

“Making innuendos over threats now, are we?” You remark, raising a brow at Sevika. The woman just huffs out a tiny laugh, walking around you until the back of your legs are pressed against the table. Where the hell is this coming from, you think, but you’re not about to stop it. Sevika, for all her incredibly rough edges and brutish behavior, has always had a certain… appeal about her that consistently captures your attention.

Makes it exceedingly difficult to get your work done sometimes.

Sevika steps closer, tilting her head down and forcing you to crane your neck all the way back just to keep her gaze. She’s a powerhouse of a woman, and she knows that. You brace yourself against the table— it’s simply you and her in this secluded alleyway, nothing but the thick vapor from her smoke keeping you two company.

In a moment of boldness, you reach up.

You take the smoke from her lips and place it between your own, drawing in a strong inhale. Instead of blowing it out, you simply open your mouth and let the smoke spill out from the sides of your lips. Sevika, to your credit, looks almost frozen by you, her deep grey eyes unable to draw away from the vapor slipping between the gaps in your teeth as you give her a grand ol’ smile.

“Qualified, for damn sure,” Sevika mutters. Her mechanical arm cages you into the table, her other wide, firm palm coming to the back of your neck. You drop the smoke from your hand, letting it fall on the ground in favor of whatever the hell Sevika is doing with the pads of her fingers on a tender spot at the base of your skull. It causes you to turn into complete putty at her mercy; you see she likes that, just by the look in her eyes.

You aren’t aware of any other present reality other than the one you’re trapped in with Sevika, but you find that you don’t mind that when she finally leans down and puts her lips on yours. The taste of ash and smoke is overwhelming— it’s bitter and gritty on the back of your throat, and the smell of wood and whiskey comes off her clothes in waves that make your head just a tad woozy. You put your hands on the belt loops of her cargo pants and pull her closer.

God, she’s so fucking tall you can’t stand it.

“Why don’t we cut the chit-chat outside and take this somewhere else since you wanna be so damn insistent on knowing my qualifications,” you say, following it with a not-so-gentle bite to her bottom lip. Something bordering on a growl slips out of Sevika’s mouth, plus an instruction to pack your shit up and follow me.

You’re not about to argue. You’ve seen what that mechanical arm can do. Well… most of it. You have the gut feeling you’re about to see what else it can do, judging by the glint in Sevika’s eye as she pulls you through the Last Drop and to her room.

~~~~~

Your short hair tickles your jaw as you tilt your head, studying. You’ve chopped it for the summer and the heat you applied to it is lifting. You can feel the curls right bursting around your cheeks.

There's something about the woman's face - even in sleep, it holds a story you've seen somewhere before, maybe on that board in town square you've trained yourself not to look at too closely.

The stranger's eyes open - dark and steady as well water. She doesn't startle, despite the gun trained on her. Just watches you like she's reading something written in the air between you both, her gaze catching on the way your corset top pulls tight across your chest, the intricate lace trim exposing your shoulders to the morning air and accentuating the swell of your breasts. 

"Would you have?" the woman asks, voice rough with sleep and something else. Her accent isn't local - has too many edges.

Your lips curl. 

"Ain't shot a thing yet that didn't deserve it." 

You shift your weight, dark jeans whispering against your boots. The corset suddenly feels more revealing under the stranger's gaze, dawn light playing across the ropy back. "You got a name?"

"Sevika." A pause, heavy as August air. "You always dress up to do barn chores?"

"Only when I've got a feeling about something." You step closer, morning light catching in your hair like a halo, shotgun lowering just slightly. You can smell gunpowder and road dust on her, underneath the hay. "Kitchen's got coffee on. Might even have some bacon, if you can convince me you're worth feeding."

Sevika sits up slow, careful, like she's trying not to spook a wild thing. Her shirt is rolled to the elbows, revealing forearms mapped with scars and something that might be tattoo ink. "That an invitation or an interrogation?"

"Guess that depends on what kind of answers you give." 

You rest the shotgun against your shoulder, turning toward the barn door, letting morning spill across your exposed skin. You don't look back - don't need to. You can feel Sevika's eyes on you like a physical touch, can hear the soft grunt as she stands.

The horses shuffle in their stalls, steam rising from their backs. Outside, a rooster crows - late, like always. Everything's waking up slow and sweet, the way summer mornings do. 

Your pulse thrums steady in your throat. There's danger in this - in the way Sevika's boots fall into step behind you. But you've never been one to let fear stop you from taking in strays. Even ones that look at you like they'd like to devour you whole.

As you walk, you can tell that she’s drinking in the sight of the farm as strangers tend to do. The acres go for miles, the sky straining and stretching across its great, green rolling body. Most of the buildings—the farmhouse, the barn, the bustling chicken coop—were built raised by your mother’s hands. She was an architect romanced and rescued by your father, though you suspect she did the rescuing more than him. 

You shimmy a hand down the downy back of one of the newest calves, nose scrunching with affection as he moos back at you. Eventually the house looms before you, the windows popped open and laundry swaying outback despite the expensive machine your mother couldn’t do without.

“You comin’?” You murmur, and Sevika blinks from where she’s been watching you stand in the doorway, your back well-muscled and strong. 

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The screen door snaps shut behind you both with a familiar whine. Morning floods the kitchen through tall windows—your mother's insistence on "proper light for proper cooking"—and catches on the copper pots hanging above the island. The coffee pot gurgles its last, right on time.

You set the shotgun in its place by the door, muscle memory, though you keep half an eye on Sevika as she takes in the space. The kitchen tells its own stories: your mother's architectural drawings spread across one end of the table, your daddy's mud-caked boots by the back door, fresh-cut flowers in a Mason jar that catch the light just so. The dishes on the side of the sink are speckled stone, sanded and glazed by the artistry of your older sister. The washing machine hums through the wall, keeping time like a heartbeat.

"Sit," you say, gesturing to the worn oak table. It's been scratched and stained by three generations of family suppers, and something in you stirs at the sight of Sevika pulling out a chair—this stranger inserting herself into your history. "Less you'd rather stand."

She sits, those capable hands folding on the tabletop. Her shoulders are still coiled tight, ready to run, but her eyes follow you as you move through the kitchen's familiar dance. Two mugs from the cabinet (your favorite and daddy's backup), bacon from the icebox, cornbread left from last night.

"Sugar?" you ask, though you've already reached for it. The container clinks against your rings as you set it down.

"Black's fine." Her voice is softer in here, like the domesticity of the space has gentled her edges. But when you lean past her to set down her mug, you catch a whiff of leather and gun oil beneath the barn hay. Your curls brush her shoulder, and you feel more than hear her sharp intake of breath.

You take your time settling into the chair across from her, adding three sugars to your own coffee with deliberate movements. Your mother would be appalled at you entertaining company in just a corset top, but there's something thrilling about the way Sevika's gaze keeps catching on the lace trim, on the exposed line of your collarbones, the rise of your breath.

You let her observe because you’re doing the same. Sevika is gorgeous, the kind of beautiful that sinks deep inside of a woman and wears her out. Her grey eyes are like two beacons and they remind you of the deer you’d beg his father not to shoot. The ones you would run after, flapping your arms to get them to scatter.

 Her face is almost ridiculously romantic, with a strong nose sitting pretty in the middle that reminds you of royalty. Her eyes are never-ending, a pit that gapes into who she is. Her skin is textured, as it gets when you’re (allegdly) living on the edge of the law. You can tell she’s older than you without her saying it. Something about her radiates maturity, the same as your mother who’s practically seen the world rise and fall. 

"So," you say, watching her over the rim of your mug. "You gonna tell me what brings a woman like you to sleep in my barn? Or do I need to go take another look at that board in town?"

Her jaw tightens, but she doesn't flinch. 

"Would it change your mind about the bacon if I did?"

"Depends." You lean back, let your chair creak against the floorboards. Through the window, you can see the laundry dancing on the line, your mother's favorite dress a splash of yellow against the morning sky. "On whether you deserved what put you there."

Sevika's fingers tighten around her mug, and you catch sight of old burns across her knuckles. "Most things ain't that simple."

"Most things worth protecting ain't either." You slide the plate of cornbread toward her, a peace offering. Your voice softens; you were never good at acting hard. "Eat something, sugar. Then we'll talk about what kind of work needs doing around here, if you're planning to stay.”

Something shifts in her expression—surprise at the endearment maybe, or relief. When she reaches for the cornbread, her sleeve rides up, revealing more of that tattoo. It looks like a snake, or maybe a dragon, curling up her arm. You wonder how far it goes, what other stories her skin might tell.

The washing machine clicks into its spin cycle, and somewhere outside, your daddy's truck rumbles to life. The morning's moving on, and there's work waiting. But for now, you let yourself sit in this moment: the sun warming your bare shoulders, the quiet sounds of Sevika eating at your family table. 

“I suspect,” she says, her throat bucking as she swallows, “that your parents will have a bit more sense about hiring a fugitive for farm work.”

You shrug, pick a corner off the cornbread on her plate.

“Everyone out here is struggling. We all need someone or something. The only reason we’re faring slightly better is because this place was paid off as an anniversary gift by my grandparents.” You glance out the window. “Plus, I’m my daddy’s favortite. He tends to listen to me.”

There’s something sad about the way you say it, as if it aggrieved you to be so loved. But the moment passes and you’re looking back at her, lips full and curved like the moon. 

“It’ll be good for us,” you decide and she lets it go. “Get seconds if you’d like, sugar. I'll intercept them.”

“I’m older than you,” Sevika rumbles and you hide a smile, cock your hip out as you grab a basket for the chickens. 

“Doesn’t make you any less sweet on the eyes.” 

At that her head ducks down and you laugh, the sound clear and bright like a bell. 

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With that Sevika finds herself hired as a farmhand under the stern eye of your father and the knowing eye of your mother. The work is honest and she relishes being able to lose herself in it, settle into the rhythm and flow of this little world your blood has built.

She doesn’t know what to do with you however.

Now, Sevika has lived several lives at this point. In fact sometimes she awoke in the night under the strain of them, the urge to run stampeding from where it sits behind her teeth and under the flat of her tongue. She understands on some level that women find her attractive, brooding. She’s unsurprised at the hints you keep dropping over the weeks. You probably find her intriguing, see her as a means to rebel with her older age and criminal nature.. (“I’m literally in my twenties, Sevika. ‘M not a baby.”)

At least that’s what she thinks at first. But then, she begins to doubt herself and overanalyze your rather…creative attempts to satisfy your coveteous nature. 

The first is when she wakes up one early morning, the sky slurred between cotton candy pink and a warm lilac, to find you taking a bath in a two-bit shining steel contraption of a tub. Your body is trembling, but you seem at peace. Your curls are heavy and swollen with water, made longer by the weight of the moisture. She watches your back flex as you move, takes in the hidden strength of your arms and peeking thighs. Your muscle takes her aback, makes her stomach warm real down low.

She should move—your parents will be up soon—but you’re just so captivating when you’re kissed by the dawn. The water sloshes as you pour it over yourself, the underside of your breasts flashing as you soap down. And then you turn, peeking over your shoulder and gazing at her with faux-bambi eyes as you trace a hand up and over your chest to get your back. 

She feels warm, teased in a manner that makes her throat squeeze and her hands clench. She doesn’t know what to do with this, doesn’t know how to naviage this eager rabid want that you show her so openly. And it just doesn’t stop.

But what really gets under Sevika’s skin is the kindness that you insist on bludgering her with, especially when no one’s watching. It’s genuine, unexpecting, and claws at her skin with tender phantom fingers.

Just the other day, Sevika had been unable to successfully ward off a duo of wolves and three sheep had been lost in her efforts. She’d apologized gruffly and repeatedly until your mother stepped forward and cupped her chin with a firm hand, telling her to “fuck off with this bullshit because it wasn’t intentional and you tried your best.” What was with you women and nurturing her?

After, Sevika had gone back to where the lasty wooly body lay—the small innocent bones of a lamb. She had felt sick at the sight because the lamb wasn’t a lamb in that moment; she’d seen something else. You saw the lean figure of her body as it bent over in some sort of grief, distraught at the sight of the dead animal beneath it. 

Sevika, You had said with shining eyes. Are you alright?

Sevika had looked at you long and hard before making a noise from deep within her throat. Turning swiftly, she tried to block you off from the sight.

I don’t think you’ll want to see this, she’d muttered and you’d settled your hands on your hips. 

I’ve lived this long before you were working here, you reminded her.

Sevika’s face was still broken in an open expression of confusion and remorse when you moved forward. Carefully, you swallowed the bulk of her body into the warmth of yours. You weren’t nearly as big, but you held your own and you held her fast. The two of you stayed just like that, with your hand tucked neatly behind her head as you steadied her. 

Now, she watches as your broad shoulders dip as you kneel to pick up the limp body of a fallen chicken. These goddamn wolves needed to be dealt with.

It’s in their nature, sugar, you’d told her.

“Wait,” she calls out and you turn to look at her, your cheeks apple-full under the thicket of your lashes. 

“Hmm?” you say back, your voice curious.

“Put gloves on if you’re gonna touch it. It probably had some sort of disease.”

Sevika walks closer, grabbing a spare pair of gloves she usually keeps for the other town boys who your father has helping him throughout harvesting week. She holds them out, those dark eyes glittering like grey moonstone.

You look up at her then, curls haloed around your soft face. They’re still kept short, dust your dimpled chin. You look so young and probably always would, the baby fat clinging to your cheeks like the hands of a lover. Sevika continues to gaze down at you, firm and unrelenting, and you smile gently as she eventually looks away. 

You’re not moving fast enough, so she crouches down and takes your hands, sliding each glove on and making sure the fingers fit. She notes that your nails are square and glossy, painted an icy pink. You watch with an affected air, scooping the small body up when she finally lets go. 

“I’m sorry,” You say to the glassy eyes of the hen and Sevika’s heart seizes.

“‘M sorry, sweetheart,” she tells you, gentle and understanding. 

You glance at her and then back at the animal you hold.

“No need to apolgize, you didn’t do anything wrong. Can you help me dig a grave for her?”

Sevika doesn’t know if it would really be worth it to bury it, but you’re a little sad and so obviously cold in your oversized cotton tee and denim shorts. Your skin lights up with the mid-afternoon sun and Sevika can see all of your goosebumps and the fine dusting of hair.

“I—sure,” she agrees and You nod, walking away and trusting her to follow.

Before you begin to lead the march, you turn back and cup her elbow. 

“Thank you, sugar.”

And that’s all. She wants to fucking eat you.

You continue to unravel her expectations like cotton thread.

You catch her before dawn another morning, when the sky's still tender with sleep and dark like the evening is loath to leave. She's checking the fence line, and you appear like a vision with two thermoses of coffee and your father's old flannel draped over your worn dark green longsleeve. When you pass her the coffee, your fingers linger on hers longer than necessary.

"Thought you might be cold out here, sugar," you say, and the endearment makes her throat tight. She's not used to being the one called sweet things.

You settle beside her on the fence, close enough that she can feel your warmth. The morning fog rolls across the fields like a dream, and Sevika finds herself watching the way it catches in your hair and the bones of your fingers, how it makes you look ethereal and solid all at once.

"You don't have to keep doing this," she says roughly, though she cradles the thermos close.

"Doing what?" Your voice is innocent but your eyes are knowing.

"Taking care of me. Bringing me things. Being..." she gestures vaguely, unable to name the way you make her feel seen.

You laugh, and she shivers. "Sugar, has it occurred to you that maybe I want to? That maybe I see something in you worth cherishing? That I’m just being genuine?"

The word ‘genuine’ hits her like a physical thing. She ducks her head, unused to this kind of naked affection, but you just reach over and touch her jaw with gentle fingers.

"You're allowed to let someone be sweet on you," you murmur. "Even if you're pushing forty." 

There's teasing in your voice, but your touch is reverent. Sevika wants to protest—about the age difference, about her rough past, about how someone as bright and whole as you shouldn't want someone as weathered as her. But you're looking at her like she’s the human version of the Promised Land, and all her arguments die in her throat.

"I don't know how to do this," she admits, voice barely above a whisper.

"Do what?" You're stroking her jaw now, thumb brushing the corner of her mouth.

"Nothing. I need to get back to work."

You lean back, let her go. 

“If it’s about learning,," you call, your voice trailing after like smoke, "the good thing is that I'm a real good teacher."

The next time I’m in town, she thinks, I need to buy a pack of damn cigarettes.

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From then on, you start to learn her tells. Like how she always positions herself between you and any perceived threat, how her hands flex when she's trying not to reach for a weapon that isn't there anymore. How she startles, less now, when you're gentle with her.

You catch her in the barn one afternoon, trying to wrap her own ribs after a particularly rough day breaking the new stallion. Her knuckles are white with the effort of reaching around, face drawn tight with pain she won't admit to.

"Sugar," you say softly, and she freezes like a spooked deer. "Let me help you with that."

Her eyes dart to you, then away. "I've had worse."

"Ain't about what you've had." You cross to her, boots quiet in the hay. "About what you deserve now."

You take the bandage from her callused fingers, and she lets you - that alone feels like a victory. This close, you can see the way her breath catches when your fingers brush her skin. Like caring for her is its own kind of violence.

"Lift your arms for me, darlin'," you murmur, and something in her expression cracks when you call her that. Like she can't quite believe the sweetness in your voice is meant for her. But she obeys, raising her arms slowly, letting you wrap her ribs with careful precision.

"You don't have to-" she starts, but you shush her.

"I know I don't have to. Want to." Your fingers trace a scar on her side, old and silver in the afternoon light. "Anybody ever just take care of you, Sevika?"

She doesn't answer, but the way she trembles under your touch says enough. You secure the bandage and let your hands linger on her waist, thumbs brushing bare skin above her jeans.

"Well," you say, pressing a lingering kiss to her shoulder, right where that dragon tattoo curls toward her neck, "better get used to it. I take good care of what's mine."

Her sharp inhale sounds like thunder, and when she turns in your arms, her usual swagger is nowhere to be found. Just vulnerability, raw and beautiful as a sunrise. You cup her face in your hands, thumbs stroking her cheeks, and she leans into your touch like she's starving for it.

"When did you decide tha?" she asks, voice rough. "That I’m yours?"

You smile, soft and sure, and smooth out the furrow in her brow. "You were mine the moment you settled onto my land, sugar. Just took us both a minute to catch up."

And maybe you came on too strong, ‘cause she yanks herself back and straightens her shoulders.

“Thanks.”

You sigh, loud and irate. She’s so fucking—

“No problem, honey.”

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It happens during the last heat of summer, when the air sits thick as honey on your skin. You're in the barn, having just finished moving hay bales—work that would've taken twice as long if you weren't so used to it. Your blue and white bandana top clings to your chest, sweat stealing out from under it, and you can feel Sevika watching you from where she's meant to be fixing the tractor. You arch your back a little more, make sure to display the way your little rose-bud panties poke over the worn mouth of your lightwash, knee-length jean shorts.

You've caught her looking more and more lately. Noticed how her eyes track the contraction of your arms when you're lifting feed bags, the way she startles when you easily hoist yourself into the saddle. Like she can't quite reconcile your soft curves with the strength beneath them.

"You gonna fix that tractor, sugar?" you ask without turning around, smile curving your lips when you hear her shift. Your desire is practically shaking the bones of your teeth."Or you just gonna watch me work?"

Her throat clicks. 

"I’m—I'm nearly done."

You hum, reaching up to stack the last bale. Your shirt’s knot loosens a little ‘round your back, exposing the dip of skin, and you hear something metallic clatter to the floor behind you. When you turn, Sevika's staring at you with those storm-grey eyes, wrench forgotten at her feet. There's grease on her forearms, sweat at her temples, and she's looking at you like she's finally ready to break.

"Something wrong?" you ask innocently, crossing to her. Your bare feet are silent in the hay.

She swallows hard when you reach her, especially when you grip the tractor's edge on either side of her, caging her in with arms that could just as easily lift her. "You know exactly what you're doing."

"Do I?" You lean closer, letting her feel the strength in your body. "Tell me what I'm doing, sugar."

Her hands flex at her sides, like she's fighting not to touch you. 

"You're driving me crazy," she admits roughly.

“Oh,” you whisper, pursing your lips. “Do I make you nervous, baby?”

She flushes, tries to scramble back, and you laugh, soft and low. 

"Driving you crazy, huh? Only fair. You've been driving me crazy since I found you in my barn." You trace a finger down her jaw, feeling how she trembles. "The way you look at me when you think I can't see. The way you try so hard to be good, to keep your distance." 

Your other hand finds her hip, grip firm. You squeeze them in warning.

"I've seen how you watch me work. You like that I'm strong enough to handle you?"

She makes a broken sound, head falling back. "[Name]."

"I've got you," you murmur, and then you're lifting her onto the tractor's edge like she weighs nothing, stepping between her legs. Her eyes go wide, pupils blown, and her hands finally, finally come up to grip your biceps. "Been wanting to do that for weeks. You know you gotta tanline right here?"

You finger the thin edge of her boxers from beneath her jeans, 

"Christ," she breathes, fingers tightening on your arms. "You're gonna kill me."

“Are you religious? That’s cutesy,” You smile, pressing closer until you can feel her heartbeat racing against your chest. "Nah, sugar. Just gonna take real good care of you." Your hands slide up her thighs, feeling the way she shivers. "If you'll let me."

She answers by pulling you into a kiss that tastes like summer storms and surrender, and you smile against her mouth. You've got her right where you want her—trembling and warm in your capable hands.

"That's it," you whisper when you pull back to breathe, one hand coming up to cup her face. "Let me handle you, mama. Just like you need."

And Sevika, who's spent years being the strong one, the dangerous one, the one who protects—she lets herself fall into you, lets herself be gentled by your hands. Maybe this is what surrender feels like: not a defeat, but a coming home.

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Your most prevailing thought is that you’re pissed you didn’t get to see Sevika like this earlier.

Her back arches beautifully, her chest rising with pleasure as you hold her down on the floor by the hips. Your mouth is relentless, suckling at her warm pussy with fervor. She tastes sweet and she’s so soaked, her arousal dribbling out of your mouth and onto your chin. You hum as she roots a hand in your hair, tugging harshly as she grinds down in tight little circles. 

She’s whimpering, high breathy sounds that you’re determined to keep streaming from her slick lips. She’s still quiet, as you expected, but Christ does she want it. You let her use you, sliding your hands from her hips up to cup and grope her tits. Her nipples are erect, so hard and pretty and pointed toward heaven like she’s trying to tempt God. She’d probably succeed. 

The sun slips through the slats of the barn and it illuminates her skin, the brown of it so warm that you almost feel as if you’re both on fire. You slip your tongue into the tight clutch of her cunt, gently dipping back and forth so that you’re fucking her on your tongue, and squeeze her ass in silent demand. She digs her nails into you, moans loudly, but still doesn’t heed.

With a groan of irritation, you clutch her ass with a grip of steel and begin to bounce her on your face until she starts to see the bigger picture. Eventually, she’s moving on her own—fast and uncoordinated as that bright spiral begins to coil in her stomach. 

“Oh my God,” she groans. “Just like that. Please.”

You pull away, spread her apart.

“I know, mama,” you murmur and then dive back in.

Her thighs come up around your head and you let her crush you, shaking your head like a dog in heat as you nurse and lap at her pussy. Above you, Sevika twists one of her nipples and you feel her body tense in response. You bring a hand up to rub at her clit, and she jerks. 

When she cums, she’s so bright and beautiful—like a star imploding onto itself. Her legs fall open and she lets out a low whine, like an animal, her hips still circling as she attempts to ride it out.

“Hold on, mama,” you tell her. “I’m gonna give it to you.”

You move quickly, undressing completely and laying your body against hers. Your tits push into hers and she nuzzles into your neck, mind still hazy. You soothe her, digging a thumb into her lower back as you slip two fingers into the meat of her. She lets out a strangled yell at the overstimulation, but you hold her to it.

You fuck your fingers into her, until the squelch is more than obscene, watching as she shakes and writhes alongside you. You use your other hand to guide her to your mouth, kissing her messily as you introduce a third finger to her pussy. 

“Oh,” she moans, low and raspy, and you coo at her. “Oh, shit. Holy—holy fuck.”

“Yeah? Does that feel good, baby? You have to tell me what you like.”

“I—mmm. Yes. Yes, it feels good. I need—I need—”

Sevika trails off, eyes wide and watery. You roll over, tucking her under you while you continue to finger her. You raise one of her legs, widening the angle, and she squeals. You laugh lowly into the seam of her neck before sucking the skin between your teeth, biting down and bruising her.

“What do you need, mama? More?”

“Yes, but—,” She blinks, attempting to clear her head. “I want you too. I want you to finish with me.”

“With you or on you?” You watch her face as you ask, eyes following the twitch of her brow. “Maybe in you?”

That makes her shiver, and you smile as you sit up. 

“Whatever you want, baby,” you mutter as you manhandle her into how you want her. “I’ll give you whatever you want.”

She shivers again and you pull her up, drawing her against your chest so that your tits are once again pressing up against each other. Carefully, you extend her strong legs over yours and inch forward until your clits catch. The friction is insane and your mouth drops open along the same time that Sevika goes ramrod straight. 

You dive right in, fucking up so that your cunts slide and swallow each other. She’s so creamy, her previous orgasm sliding down her thighs. There’s a moment where your control dips, where she’s the one ramming the two of you together and leading you up so that you can grind harder until she stutters again.

Then it’s back and you’re holding her down, spreading her even further open as you rub your pussy roughly against hers. You need her to stay down, need her to take what you choose to give. Sevika is beneath you, trembling and open mouthed, and you stick two fingers down her throat ‘till she’s gagging wetly around them.

“Oh m’God,” you moan, your eyes never leaving hers. “You’re such a fucking slut, mama. Jesus.”

That does it and you feel her pour into you, thick and warm. You follow shortly after, rocking and pushing down against her as you chase the feeling. She’s sobbing, a hand coming up to grip at her throat as she tries to match your movements.

You slow, come to a stop, and stroke her face as you rise off of her. Tenderly, you kiss at her cheeks and eyelids as you sush her. 

“I know, baby. You were so good. Such a good, perfect, strong woman. Hmm?” You kiss her temple. “You did so well, mama.”

She’s shaking, so you hold her until she’s less far away. You want to get up, get her some water and maybe something to eat but she’s holding you captive. Sevika turns into you, body big and curved like the moon come to earth.

The afternoon light paints everything gold, and you know you’ve got work waiting—always do, on a farm. But for now, you just continue to hold her. Somewhere outside, those wild dogs are keeping watch. 

© hcneymooners.